After King's Cross Station
by Alex the Anachronistic
Summary: Post HP7. Oh, phooey, Snape became a ghost. What kind of torment will he wreak now? He certainly will not become editor of the Quibbler, chief investigator of other ghosts' psychological states, best pals with the Bloody Baron, or Irma Pince's lover.
1. First Time at King's Cross

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_By the way, this story is written based on a prompt by my friend, _is-a-palindrome_. We actually both wrote a short story on it. Only mine got longer, for some reason. She posted her own version; look for it! _

_I have recently taken an interest in severely revising this story. This is the second edition of this chapter._

**Chapter 1**

**After King's Cross **

"Take--it--take--it," Snape gasped, attempting to stop the blood rushing from his neck half-heartedly with the back of his hand. _If only Remus Lupin were here now, to lick the wound--the last of the Marauders would enjoy lapping up the blood of their long-cursed enemy. It would be a fitting epilogue to their measly existence, to have the weakest-willed of their brood, the most monstrous of the monsters, be the one to survive them all. _

_Good._ The Granger girl had conjured a flask and Potter had collected the memories. _Well, there's one more rotten job done._A wave or relief, cool and rich as sweet strawberry wine, penetrated his features and soul. He felt a reluctant pang of regret seize him nonetheless. _It's Lily's son I'm looking at. Likely for the last time. If only I had been able to do more for him. _Now, though, he had no more opportunity to do so.

He had to see the boy's eyes--no, forget that Harry was only her boy, they were _her _eyes all the same--and so he grasped at the teenager's sweat-ridden shirt with desperation.

"Look--at--me," he whispered, his coal eyes cornered those jade-green ones of Potter--_no,_ _not of Potter, of Lily_. _Just once more._ One last image of her, through the blasphemous image of her son.

Intending to say something, his lips moved hesitantly, but the words did not come. _In my dying breaths, it seems, eloquence fails me. Words always have been my advantage over others, but now I see how useless they really are. I commend those who never broached the study. Puts things rather into perspective. _Conscious of pain seeping through his body, Snape felt his muscles turn completely limp--_I've never felt so helpless--_and his hand fell to the ground.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

He generally became aware of a certain serenity surrounding him, tranquility. _Everything is so--so silent. I believe the pain has dissociated from me; that's auspicious. Peace and quiet--could be worse. But now is going to probably be my first glimpse of whatever I'm going to have to deal with for eternity, be it unending darkness, light, or a fourth-dimensional world. Hang on, Snape, you're about to have an encounter with destiny. _With this nervous anticipation, Severus opened his eyes.

It startled him that he was upright; he had somewhat assumed he would be parallel to the ground amidst a claustrophobic darkness, even though logically he knew he could not be buried in a matter of minutes. He stood in a train station, King's Cross by the look of it. _An oddity indeed. There's no other people here._

A train with a single coach sat patiently before him, neat, clean, and intact. It resided at a vacant boarding place Severus had never heard of, 38 113/365. He saw it was stuck neatly between 38 112/365 and 38 114/365, the numbers continuing up or down either way as far as his eye could see. Inexplicably, he drawn to the train, feeling as though he ought to board the coach without any feasible special reason to do so. The physical urge to step towards the coach was inconsolable.

He understood quickly, being a rather intelligent man, and the notion was not so frightening. It was May 2, 1998—113 days (he confirmed this with some mental math) since his last birthday on January 9th. 113 days out of a full year, or 365. _If it were a leap year, it very likely would read 114/366_. The 38 was accounted for in that he had completed 38 full years in his life cycle so far.

This was no uncanny coincidence. He knew there was no other alternative. _This is solely my boarding station, unless someone else with my birthday and deathday dies in the next few hours. How neatly organized they must be in heaven, and what a hell heaven must be if one is a particular aficionado for entropy._ Not as though he had such predilection when it came to disorder; he preferred neatness in his potions laboratory, and that spread to the rest of his daily habitat. Nevertheless, at once, he felt an inordinate fear of ascending into the coach.

There was not much he could do to fight the impulse which forced itself upon him. Unconsciously, he while he pondered had been walking, and now quite unreasonably he found himself at the coach's entrance entrance. He barely snapped his limbs into his own control before his foot lighted upon the rung of the cold silver stairs. _What, am I no longer master of my own self? _He had not realized that he was advancing on the coach until now, and he shivered as he withdrew his boot. However, as presently, he came nearer and nearer to boarding, his mental faculties raged.

_I suppose if I walk backwards, I'll just be walking forwards, like Alice in the looking-glass world. _He tried it, and found instead that he could operate himself in the usual fashion, devoid of any tricks. When he cared to move forward, he did so, when he cared to move backward, he did so, and when he cared to move sideways, he did so. Thus assuaged, he strode angrily to the vicinity of a bench along the unmarred brick wall and planted his derrière upon it firmly. To his surprise, the blind impulse to board the train slackened, and he settled into a more easy state of mind.

"I see you're resisting." A soothing female voice spoke to him as though from a dream. He was not so astonished, but merely looked about him in an annoyed manner, searching for the source of the voice. As he expected, he could not determine its whereabouts. "Don't worry, you're not the first, and certainly not the last."

He fidgeted.

"I've laid off the automatic-directionary spell, never fear. I just employ it to save my time, so I don't have to pay attention to as many people at once. Saves a bit of breath, so I don't have to explain _why you're here_ to everyone who dies, if you know what I mean. The stupid ones usually never even know that they were _encouraged, _so to speak, and it only befuddles them if you give a crap enough to explain. 'I'm _dead?'_ they ask, with such pain and confusion in their eyes that it thoroughly disheartens one, 'I'm _dead? _Then why am I _here_?' And it just pains one too much, really, to have to explain that, yes, that motor did crack their skull, or their darling niece did poison them for their money, or some such other reason that they'll never comprehend."

Snape nodded curtly. "I take it that you're a fellow cynic. What do they call you?" he asked, neither particularly interested nor uninterested.

"'They' calls me alternately 'bitch', 'mother earth', and '_La vie en rose_', the former especially when drunk, but am probably better known to you as Eve, with your however-vaguely-Catholic upbringing."

A bitter gasp—of amusement? Of disgruntlement of her vast knowledge? Of mere recognition?--escaped from the strangling confines of Snape's lips. "Eve. Ah, but they relegated you to the beastly job of greeting departed souls, I see? Taken over for Kharon?"

"The River Acheron, the River Cocytus, the River Phlegethon, the River Lethe, and the River Styx all dried up one by one in the 1000s, when we started using oxen and carts. Rumor has it they were just moved, but it's not my place to need to know. But, you know, I like my job," admitted the entity, "for it's better than being beyond La-Bas."

Snape wondered what she meant by that.

"At least, that's what I hope. I've never been beyond the horizon. La-Bas is the afterlife beyond life, but it's beyond the horizon. Adam died before me, you see, and I guess he actually went to La-Bas. I wouldn't know for sure. I died in childbirth from a kid the bastard impregnated a month before his own demise, and so at the time didn't have the energy to move. Now it's a lot easier for women in the same position as me—I made sure of _that _at least—and now you folks have it very easy. You come here, and your old wounds are instantly healed. You don't need to walk to La-Bas; you've got yourself your own personal private train. I imagine soon we'll be updating to a limosine; those are truly beautiful, I believe. Though, of course, I don't know what happens _after _what currently is the train, though I've heard many a good hint. The Bible itself tells us that there are only two ways: heaven and hell. I don't know from experience. As far as I know personally, La-Bas is the end of the line. The division in the track--if there is one--is beyond it."

A properly blood-curdling scream erupted from somewhere down the long stations, and Snape visibly started. Eve sighed resignedly. "Ah, but there's another one in the 38 chapter who's having trouble. I'll be back in a jiffy, just sit for a moment and we'll talk some more."

There was no visible sign that she was gone, but soon Snape heard her soothing voice again, rather far away, too muffled to discern her precise words.

Immobility immediately brought him to that slightly dangerous occupation known as _thinking. _This thinking session was predominantly an abridged memorial autobiography_, _a certain revisiting of memories from over the course of his life. Images of his early years, with an Irish-descended alcoholic for a father, a weedy and weepy mother who was permanently retired after a failed attempt at show-biz, and a brat of a squib sister who got her way any day for no reason at all. Visions of sugar-filled days with Lily Evans danced in his head, days before Hogwarts was anything but a beautiful dream, days before Potter and his rogues were the locusts to his existence. Modalities of work, of studies, of time spent poring over his cauldrons in the dungeons, of classes, of teachers, and of himself as a teacher.

Then, very suddenly, he came to the realization that he did not want to go to La-Bas, where he would learn if he was to dwell in heaven or hell for eternity. He could not be dead; he was stupid to have allowed it. Why did he let himself die, when he had so much life to be lived?

How was he, a fine, capable wizard, to succumb to whatever fate resided for him within the coach? He had work to do still in the world. He was brilliant, a genius! Not only so, but he was a capable, eager brilliant genius that would stop at nothing to accomplish his ends, and in this persistence he was definite rarity among those of a higher mind. He had an enormous contribution to mankind he had not yet fulfilled, he realized. So many of his ideas he never had expanded upon, never had explored, and now he was required to disappear from the likes of humankind forever, to some realm unknown. In this realm unknown, of course, he had no idea if his work would be capable or even necessary. He had been brought up with the notion that God had all answers, since he was an all-seeing, all-knowing, omnipotent being. (This omnipotency rather frustrated Snape, actually; this meant that God was likely observing him now, and the entity was probably laughing in his chair at the tumoltuous emotions flowing through the cursed man's veins.)

"Eve?" he asked suddenly, wondering if she would hear while so far away from him.

"Yes, what is it?" Her voice was loud again, and she was rather annoyed. "I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Does God have any need for scientific experiments and inquiry?"

Her tones were amused. "You'll probably not find him to be exactly what you imagine," she declared. "Though, I imagine--"

She was abruptly interrupted by a second scream. "I'm really very busy with this other 38; I'll be back in a moment."

_I guess if I end up going to heaven--which is by a slim chance indeed--there won't be much need for study and research, considering the fact that the most knowledgeable expert will be close at hand. _This depressing thought brought a frown to his face, though this was indeed not a foreigner to grace it. His disgruntlement augmented as he also remembered, _And based on my innumerable vices (including but not at all limited to) avarice, anger, uncleanliness, taking the lord's name in vain, a lot of lying, hate, abuse of power, lack of mercy . . . _The list was truly endless. How had he even thought allowing himself to die was worthwhile—_I'm so crooked at this point, I really ought not to have even considered death as an option. It must be a monster indeed who qualifies for hell if I'm not accepted into it! If this inevitability is what results from death, by Merlin, I don't want it!_

"Severus, board on Platform 38 and 113/365. Severus, please board."

The returned voice of Eve was detached and almost malignant. Snape could not feel anything more than a sense of dread as he looked at the coach. _Hell: eternal fire and brimstone and all that tosh. Probably the Marauders will be there, too, only I'll be tied down so they can throw stones at me. _

"No," he said, unsure if the woman who had unseeingly spoke to him would even hear, "I refuse to comply. I'm not going." He stood abruptly, steadfast, glaring. He would fight, fight against the cards that fate had dealt him so cruelly, _fight to the death--oh, what a hideously ironic term._

Her tone changed in an instant. "Oh, right, yes. You're still recalcitrant. And not very talkative, either?" She asked this hopefully, but Snape's sullen stare brought her to sigh again. "Oh, please don't make me go through the usual rigmarole."

He still gave no response.

"I seem to have no choice. All right, Severus, you have lived a full life. You have done well, and died courageously. You fought to the end. Accept this, and come to rest in peace."

The words, taken as though neatly from his epitaph, spooked him. "I refuse," he said, gravely.

The voice sighed again. "Do I need to--" it began, but upon meeting Severus' stony glare, decided, "Yes, I do. Oh, I wish you were a talker, but so often your kind are the broody sort. I do so long for someone to talk _with _as opposed to _to. _Well, I hope you get what you're asking for._"_

The next moment, two visions broke into the station. One was Dumbledore, tall and absurdly strange as usual, but Severus noted the distinct lack of gray on his hand. The curse from Marvolo's ring was gone.

The other, to Severus' astonishment, was _her:_ Lily.

Needless to say, Severus' first instinct was to tear towards the latter first. He would not have been above throwing himself at her feet. Her bemused smile, however, made him think, and he instead stared stolidly. Unsure what to do with her, he instead turned to Dumbledore.

"My dear boy." The old man raised his arms expectantly, evidentially desiring to embrace Severus, but the younger man refused to move. Dejected, Dumbledore lowered them again, tut-tutting sadly. "I see you still are upset at me," he murmured, "And rightfully so. I don't deserve anything better from you, Severus. I don't know why I expect anything more."

"Don't mind me," Severus replied darkly, neither retreating nor advancing. "You did what was for the common good. You even sacrificed your life for the common good. Let's not talk about this any more."

"Then—then about what do you want to talk about?"

Severus' eyes, trained on the geezer until this time, drifted cautiously to glance at Lily. Seeing that she--the ghost, the spectre, the hallucination, the mirage!--was staring at him expectantly, he hurriedly turned a glare towards his undeserving boots.

"Don't mind me," the old man chuckled, glancing at a clock above Severus' platform sign, "I'm expecting someone else in a few moments. She's here for you." Albus stepped away in his most gracious manner, walking away down the long line of platforms.

Only when Dumbledore was out of earshot, Lily faced Severus. A complacent smile still played upon her lips.

"Severus, my poor dear friend," she said wistfully. She stepped towards him cautiously, as though approaching a dead animal. Like a dead animal, Snape made no move. She took another stride towards him, and he again stayed, silent and austere. Then she lost all sense of propriety and leaped to his side, throwing her arms around him in a warm embrace.

"I'm glad you came back to our side in the end," she whispered, a whirl of emotions pulsing through her body. Severus felt her acceptance, her love, and welcomed it wholly.

"Were . . . were you watching from here after you left earth?" he asked, gently placing his arms around her in what felt like more than a platonic embrace. Lily pulled away gently and shook her head. Merlin, he loved how her hair whipped across her face, how it shone in the misty light of the station.

"No," Lily said, a bit quietly. "I was not watching you."

She gestured to the bench that he had vacated, and the pair seated themselves. "You see," she began slowly, "Even in this realm, our powers are limited. Only with _his_" (she spoke as though recalling a holy deity whom Severus assumed reigned over the dead) "express permission may a man or woman see a person in the lower world. I was allowed only to watch my son in the Viewer, no others." Severus again took the assumption that Lily referred, by 'the Viewer', to some enchanted object in the land beyond this station.

_But she was only watching her son. Does that mean she saw life through his eyes, or does that mean that she saw his life objectively, like an angel on his shoulder? _He began to worry that all of his efforts to preserve the boy's life had, perhaps, been for naught.

"I helped your son a great deal, I think," he stated, more than hinting at his unique position. Lily, however, did not catch his bait, and it soon became clear that she knew not of his especial purpose.

"I know you did, Severus, and I am eternally grateful, though at some times you might have been slightly kinder, I gather. But Dumbledore has watched you, and he has explained your role in helping Harry. But he did not explain to me one thing—why did you do it? Surely you did not do it merely to atone for that chance slip of the tongue that I scorned you for years ago?"

This was too much for Severus. He rose fiercely, his body palpitating with ire and despair.

"Lily, what are you saying?" he asked, voice growing hoarse. "Do you even understand--?"

"Do I understand _what_?" Her voice was damnably calm and collected, which was the utter opposite of Severus' own nerves. Death was by no means an easy ordeal, and coming to understand that his life's goal had been completely worthless so soon after it--_why, it's damned irritating!_

"You obviously don't know," he blurted, hurt and angry.

"Don't know what, Severus?" Not even the smallest iota of impatience could be detected in her tones. "As you yourself would tell me, 'Enough with the word games!'"

Biting the inside of his lip until he drew blood, Severus made a wholehearted attempt to quell his rising blood pressure. "Lily," he began slowly, "We met at a very young age. We were the best—the very best—of friends. We attended school together, spent hours upon hours in each other's company. No one understood it, but we never questioned it. We were an odd pair, I'll grant—me, the studious and rather snappish Slytherin, and you, the light-hearted and optimistic Gryffindor—but we got on wonderfully together. Beauty and the Beast, you might say. Until I had the misfortune to make some bad friends, whose ideology blinded me for a brief period. Did—did you ever—well--" He felt deucedly awkward. "Did you ever—miss me, after we went our separate ways?" _Bloody infernal ass, that's not what you were going to ask! But I suppose we have all eternity to sort this out, so may as well take it slowly. _

Lily nodded, rather too quickly for his liking. "Yes, Severus. Of course I missed you. I missed you dreadfully. James was never too keen to talk about anything but me and Quidditch, as you well know, and I rather wished you were still around to discuss—or, rather, tell me about—what new fascinating things were going on in the academic world. I bought the magazines we used to get in the library, but it never was the same without your constant annotations."

"You know that's not what I mean!" exclaimed Severus hotly, unable to control himself despite the fact that all rationality demanded that he play his cards carefully.

"Then what do you mean, Severus?" asked Lily, her even tones producing the least therapeutic of effects upon Snape. "I think you're being very confusing right now. Go on, you've got something on your mind that you've got to spit out. Get on with it, I'm listening, I'm right next to you, I'm not going to disappear if you speak your mind."

He snarled. "Damn you, Lily, did you ever care for me more than as a friend?"

Finally, he had pierced her Achilles' heel, given her something she could not refute so easily. Her eyes grew wide at the prospect, wide with horror and—though he may have imagined it—disgust. Regaining her composure quickly, however, she shook her head in denial.

"No, Severus, I don't know where you got such an idea. Did you?"

If she had stopped at the word 'idea' he might not have lost it, he maintained later. As it was, though, that added 'did you?' rankled the deepest roots of his long-established stoicism, ruffled them and then chopped them from the base of his stem. He was vulnerable, bare, above ground.

_That woman has always been the ruin of me._

Without even anticipating it himself, he fell to the ground in heavy sobbing—sobs that had plagued his life since her death, that had resounded in his heart for almost minute of every day, that had never before shed before anyone but Dumbledore. These poured from him in more grief than he had ever imagined. Lily had never guessed--had never even thought! She would never know what sacrifices he had made, what prices he had paid, for her and her alone.

_My entire life has thus been in vain._

In his distress, prostrate upon the ground--a gentle touch, that of a moth landing on a nocturnal-blooming flower, grazed his shoulder.

"Severus, what did I say? Did I—"

Here he stood again, his face contorted in piteous rage, "No! No! Bitch! Leave me! Damn you; I hate you! I hate you! Oh Merlin, help me--"

The tears could not cease their flow.

Lily watched him, too pure to condescend to his level and lay on the floor. Instead, she bent her knees gently, stooping to comfort him.

"Severus, please explain. Nothing can be accomplished through tears and misery--do be rational!" Her voice held a tinge of annoyance, and almost of urgency. Severus could not pretend happiness at will, however, especially not when he had been devastated so deeply as then.

"I--I devoted my entire life to your memory. I never could forget you, Lily. I did everything for you, though through your son. Everything! And you never even guessed, not even when you were alive-- damned cursed bitch!" The words spat from his mouth in an attempt to sound hateful, but utterly did not succeed. Instead, they only more clearly revealed the intensity of his emotions to her. Pityingly, never angry, the woman of his continua veneration watched over him. Though irked at her sympathy, he made an effort to be more reverent as he went on, "Lily, I've loved you my whole life. From the moment I met you—saw you--and you never knew how much I gave for you, Lily. You never even knew until that I loved you. I lived my whole life for you, and you alone."

Then a gasp of surprise broke his rambling. Lily, King's Cross Station, Platform 38 113/365, all were disappearing slowly into the mist.

"What's happening?" he croaked with alarm, putting out his arms until he resembled a sort of table. The visions began to fade away, gently, more and more hazy and indistinct.

"Oh Severus," he heard Lily's fading voice call, "No man may be sad in the kingdom of heaven."

He heard Eve's melancholy reprise: "No man may be sad if they're off to La-Bas. Sorry, Severus, but this is what protocol demands . . . "

A whirling, twirling sensation seized him, and he was reminded of Dorothy and Toto stuck in a tornado in the middle of Kansas. A few minutes of this nauseating spinning, and then he was back again—staring at the dreary ceiling of the Shrieking Shack, cold and alone. There was no sign of any other rational being anywhere.

Unsure what had just happened to him—had Eve, Dumbledore and Lily been a dream? If not, then why was he back?--Severus attempted to sit up. He was expecting the experience to be a painful one due to his injuries. However, despite the blood he had lost, he found it easier than even in his prime state. The reason for this did not puzzle him for long, however. Although he had felt himself rise to his feet, his body had not physically lifted.

What remained on the ground was his lifeless corpse amid a pool of his long-shed, now congealed blood. Severus Snape had become a ghost.

_What damned good luck I seem to have._


	2. Reconciliation and Revelations

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

**Chapter 2 **

"_No man may be sad in the kingdom of heaven."_

"_No man may be sad if they're off to La-Bas."_

So there was a heaven behind La-Bas. Lily had thought Severus belonged there. Still, as usual, he managed to botch things up for himself by showing too much emotion. What had he been thinking, succumbing to tears like that in front of the woman he had loved for decades? It would have been better if he began to snog her outright; the consequences for _that _evidentially would have been less dire than those he by which he was now infected.

_I make myself into a infernal ass every time it is most important to _not _be an infernal ass._

This thought perpetrated a fresh round of tears, as much as he attempted to withhold them. For an hour or more, he lay on the ground, partially in his body, partially out. It felt increasingly like being in the cavity of a very tight log, until Severus exasperatedly withdrew himself from the bounds and lay parallel to his body, letting his ghost's arms drape fondly over the narrow torso of his physical counterpart. It was in this position that Severus fell into deep, exhausted, immobile pondering.

_At least I learned one thing from this depressing incident—it's easy to see now why all ghosts come from such miserable backgrounds. (Except the Fat Friar, who seems to be incessantly jolly, but I've thought quite seriously that often it is a mere facade on his part.) But ghosts are almost always the sort of people who died trying to do something and failed, who only succeeded in bringing about their own death, be it self-contrived or a bumbling blunder. Or contrived by an enemy, for that matter. And it is also evident why they always seem so frustrated in literature—they can never carry out their own revenge. That's why Hamlet's father had to appear to Hamlet himself, rather than slay the uncle on his own accord. I suppose it's a punishment for living a crud-infested life, to have a maggot-filled post-existence in the very semblance of life. Merlin, I wish to Hades I would wake up and find this all a dream . . ._

Amidst such contemplations, he still could not permanently stop crying. Perhaps Snape had never read _Revelation 21:4_: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

Even if he had, Severus should have felt severely disappointed, for the Bible, in his case, lied. He had an ample number of tears in his eyes, but neither the Christian God, Lily under the guidance of that entity, Dumbledore, or even Eve, the mother of man, could wipe them away.

_I am unfortunately now aware how one is refused both heaven and hell in one stroke—one merely has to shed tears before the crossroads. _

Something else puzzled him, however.

_Apparently, Lily thought I was good enough to go to heaven—she, who is so pure and benevolent—and why would they send me back here if my final destination was hell? So I must have been bound to a happier afterlife than I anticipated. Of course, as it is always with me and good things, I managed to lose it before I had it in my hand. The pebble I merely had to ask for, just as I was about to ask, was dropped into the deepest, coldest pond on earth._

He experienced a fate worse than death with Lily's confession of oblivion. He was to live upon earth in the most frustrating of situations, for what he supposed would be eternity.

_I can't kill myself now, _he mused bitterly_, for there would be no point in it. I already am dead._

Nonetheless, he did rise and attempt to bash his head against the side of the shack, though he quickly saw that this had no worthwhile effect. his head simply melted into the woodwork, and he had for a fleeting second several termites in the vicinity of his nose. When he retreated, he saw scars in the boards and walls, which gave him a very distinct feeling of disgust. _Those are, of course, from Remus Lupin, the amazing werewolf who managed to make human friends, who managed to beat the stigma of his monsterhood, and even got married to a beautiful __Metamorphmagus_.

The remembrance made him shudder, and brought forth fresh tears. _Interesting thing, these tears. They are not water, are not gas, but of this vaporous material somewhat like the strange mist that I myself am compromised of. _

It also occurred to him: _I suppose I must be 'an imprint of a departed soul' as textbooks like to call ghosts. The imprint of the departed soul of Severus Snape. The ghost of Severus Snape. Severus Snape, Profession: Certified Ghost._

At this point, he began to feel rather hysterical, and he began to laugh uproariously to himself over this and similar trivialities, his gasping intermittent with fresh rounds of tears.

As he began to calm, he began to explore his new state, trying in vain to feel texture of anything besides his own clothes, body, and saline. It was not without amusement that he discovered his wand disappeared from his physical body, and, instead, in phantasmal form in his own vaporous sleeve. _Well, at least I shall be able to do magic in death; that means I can still do potions and defense. Rather useful. _For experimentation purposes, he blew a patronus to join him in his misery. It emerged from his wand, hesitatingly, but soon the doe emerged to nuzzle against his leg. This highly animalistic, rather simple motion was more comforting than all the world to Snape: he could still feel the warmth of his patronus even in his ghostly state.

After a time, he banished the patronus, for it reminded him of _her_, and he could not bear to think about _her. _Predictably, a minute or so later, he summoned it again, not necessarily for any reason more than comfort. Even though it was only some of his own happiness compromised into a semi-mammalian form, the impression was that the patronus was a caring, loving pet. Snape never had kept a real familiar, due to financial constrictions and an unpredictable lifestyle, but he emotionally cared for the patronus as he would a real animal. As it was, he called her Mrs. McGraw, for no discernible reason except for the fact that he liked the name; it was from a favorite song sung in the pub near his house, and the sound of the rather coarse syllables always somehow appealed to him. Never had the doe been anything more than Mrs. McGraw, and any attempts to re-name her had been for naught.

He said nothing to her as he felt the soft heaving of her sides, therapeutic and regular. The imitation animal had been his sole consolation in many a desperate situation, and Snape felt as attached to her as a child might feel to a particularly favorite stuffed toy.

_I am no more than a big grown-up child, anyways. Just like a spoiled kid who's refused a certain toy, the only reason I've always wanted Lily is because I never got her. _

The thought, one that had laid dormant for many years, spurred him into anger again. He sent Mrs. McGraw away almost forcefully, smacking away her soft face with the back of his vaporous hand. Feeling mildly ashamed of himself, which made him even more riled, he rose with a vehement air.

_The world has got to pay for what it's done to me. No, that's wrong—I've got to pay myself for what I did to myself._

He stepped carefully over his dead body, noticing how the wind of his movement stirred the limp hair of his physical head. Gently, he bent over himself, marveling at how fantastically uglier he was face-to-face than in the mirror. Out of innate curiosity, he drew back his body's eyelids, then quickly shut them again when he saw the cold, trance-like stare of death that gazed back at him. With his finger, he slowly stirred the blood around his body, able to judge the consistency of the liquid but unable to feel its liquidity. _It's almost as though I am wearing a set of gloves, so I cannot perceive texture. _This frustrated him immensely.

Severus had obviously plenty of sorrow on his mind, and he had cried to the point where his eyes might have slipped from their sockets amid the saline. If _Revelation_ had spoken true, Severus would not have cared a bit when Lily admitted her fallacy and inadequacy. He should have felt numb, immune to the pain; he may even have found the whole thing dearly amusing. Instead, his heart ripped to shreds and his very soul tore. _Revelation _did make one correct prediction, however. Former things in Severus' past had definitely passed away, things like appreciation, trust, and even love. Replacing them now came the bleaker senses of hopelessness, suspicion, and hatred.

He had found himself so close, close to eternal bliss, happiness, the jubilation and joy he had never experienced on Earth. He had touched her, had felt her embrace, had heard her words. He had only needed to step onto the train, he realized, and he might have reached the eternal paradise within which he so wished to dwell.

_Damn those Gryffindors! Damn them all!_

How did they, his tormentors, his closest enemies and friends, manage to always do things _right? _He certainly never managed to do so. Even this, even just getting into heaven--he failed.

_This_, Severus decided, _this can not possibly get worse_. A public spectacle of his loss, a tribute to his awkward, despised life: he had no more value than a rotted pumpkin. _The remains of a pumpkin that the cook had disliked the sound of when she rapped it with her knuckles. A pumpkin left outside on the back porch, to shield the other plants behind it with its shade, whether it wanted to or not. A pumpkin that withered beneath the incandescence of the sun, that fell victim to the frost. A pumpkin that no one ever bothered to carve out, to cut fascinating shapes into, to illuminate with a candle at night. A pumpkin that neither found itself placed in the seat of honor on the front doorstep nor admired._ In some ways, while contemplating this analogy, Severus decided that, after all, _only a week after Halloween the carved pumpkins began to get moldy and sag, while those yet intact could remain useable for many days longer. Yet usefulness and glory scarcely ever go hand in hand, and, after all, few pumpkins never scrape the grandeur of turning into a jack-o-lantern. _Severus knew only the few triumphs of a so-dubbed 'useful' pumpkin.

With a sudden angry fervor, Snape stood over his own dead body, loathing in his phantasmal eyes. Fire seizing him, he made a motion to stamp out his body's face with his ghostly boot, attempting to disfigure his deplorably ugly visage, to smash it and crush it to a bloody pulp. To his greatest irritation, he found he could not do this. When he kicked, he could not do it any harm; indeed, the corpse refused to move. Throwing things at it proved to have a better effect, and so did knocking over an old cabinet on top of it, but anything that involved his own hands refused to incur any injury to the body.

_I suppose this is to restrict the violence that ghosts can wreak across the world when they come back, hell-bent for revenge, _he mused sulkily, moving back the prostrate cabinet to see how well his ends had been achieved. Things were much lighter to carry in this state of senselessness, and he supposed he would be able to lift a small Muggle car if he wanted. As it was, he moved back the large cabinet without any effort, and was pleased to see the grade of damage done to his corpse. _But a little sorry at my hasty reaction_ he thought dispassionately, staring down the thing. He had somewhat expected that, somehow, his nerves would still have some connection with his physical presence, but it seemed that they were completely detached.

Denial, anger, and depression had all been broached by Severus' psyche by this time. Acceptance was on the verge of occurring, to conclude his stages of grief, but it would be a difficult stretch attempting to counter-act the combined anger and depression.

He eventually fell asleep there in the Shrieking Shack, curled in the corner like a lost child under a bridge or stoop.


	3. Gryffindor's Purest Heir

_DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. _

_This is the second edition of this chapter, revised in July 2008. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 3**

Upon waking from a dreamless sleep, Severus recalled the fact that a battle still raged. Or did it? How much time had passed in his absence, and in his meditation? He made an attempt to fly in the manner he had learned from Voldemort, but discovered he had no need. On the simple premise of a thought, he easily floated up towards the ceiling. _Well, here's the first real advantage I see to this wretched situation._ _As if there could be any real compensation for eternal paradise!_

Nevertheless, he floated to the high window of the Shrieking Shack and rubbed a viewing hole through the caked dust of decades. The sunlight streaming instantly through the clean glass shocked him. He discovered that it was day, mid-day.

_What do I do with myself now? _Strangely, the idea that he was free—free from all obligations, duties, and chores—somewhat unsettled him. Combined with the effect of the bright sunshine, he felt contrarily disturbed. He swiftly analyzed himself. _I'm so used to being told what to do that I can't bear to be without someone who's responsible for every significant action I take. I had two masters for years, and now, suddenly—suddenly I don't. _

A claustrophobic kind of fear smothered him, and he immediately felt like summoning Mrs. McGraw for help, but he refused to because of the inward 'child' comment he had paid himself. _I feel abruptly orphaned, as silly as that may seen. I haven't had parents since I was fifteen. I'm too old to be dealing with this type of emotion, I'm too old to have been abandoned. _

Again, he saw that he could not do anything but dwell on his own immaturity in this situation, in every aspect of his life. With such vulnerability, he considered himself rather reasonable when his rationality suggested: _I don't want to leave. I just don't want to have to deal with them yet._

His future cleared of haze, for a while at any rate, he settled down in a corner, clearing it by kicking down some cobwebs until the spiders scurried away.

_I suppose I'll just linger until someone comes and tells me I'm trespassing or something. Not that they could do much about it, but I do have all eternity to spend. _

_Now, I wonder if I'm supposed to eat as a ghost?_

As far as he could remember, he could not remember ever seeing a ghost eat anything in the Great Hall, as often as he saw them there.

_I would swear I was hungry, but I suppose that's just habit. Or just part of the torture of this existence._

As he contemplated this, a barely audible _woosh_ entered his transparent ears, and Severus turned his head. To his immense surprise, he saw the Slytherin Ghost, known as The Bloody Baron.

"Severus." The Baron advanced, formidable in his chains and bedraggled 17th century attire. The sight struck Snape as rather unnerving, especially since the Baron had never paid him so much as a passing glance before. Not that the Baron ever really looked at anyone, ever.

"Sir." Severus could not think of a more appropriate title. He wondered what a book of etiquette should say: _"When you are addressed for the first time as a ghost by a ghost you never made contact with before, yet you knew by a rude nickname you'd dare not address the ghost with but no other title, you say something along the lines of this . . ."_

Not only was he deprived of a proper name for the other ghost, he had no idea what to say. Fortunately, the Baron should made the next conversational move.

"Alas. I feared you should join our ranks one day. I am sorry to see my surmise correct."

In what one could only call a timid manner, Severus descended from his place at the window to near the Baron at the door. He then proceeded to speak the truth.

"I do not know what to say."

The Baron nodded. "I do. We all sensed your newly acquired state very early yesterday morning. It's not hard to tell, you know." He paused. Severus found himself amazed that the ghost had spoken over ten words to him. That added up to more than Snape had ever heard come from the other ghost's lips when the former had lived in the world of the living.

The Baron forced himself onwards, as though by duty. "We gave you some time before coming to search for you--after all, dying is a thing that has strange reactions at first--but we felt that your vibes were a bit more stable this morning. A bit warmer you might say. Now--we, as a collective whole-- invite you to come live, if you can call our state '_living_'--at Hogwarts, among friends."

Severus half expected the other ghost to fall to the ground, panting from the exertion of speaking so much. The Baron refused to provide such an entertaining scene, however. Instead, the left side of his mouth twitched.

"Young man, believe it or do not believe it, but I am not completely a silent ghost. I merely refuse to speak to mortals, since I have long found that the ones who talk to me inevitably are ones who never return after their demise, and I'm _dead_ tired of having to make new acquaintances with every fresh generation."

Snape started. "Ahem. Yes. Of course. I see."

The Baron extended a regal arm towards the door. "Do you care to accompany me to Hogwarts? Or do you intend to haunt this—_deathly _dismal shack--to give some basis for the shrieking half of its name?"

Severus detected that the request sounded more like an expectation.

"Not as though I have any better alternative."

So, the two ghosts left, Severus wondering: "So. He said I can live at Hogwarts among friends. _Friends_. I wonder."

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Their floating 'walk' was fast-paced, and Severus noted that they were rather similar, where he had never bothered to care before that day. Slim, tall, and catlike in agility, they both spoke as though they had dictionaries in their pockets, and their skeptical natures coincided as well.

They entered Hogwarts without another word between them. Severus supposed that, for some reason, the other ghosts had merely chosen the Baron to pursue the knight-errant of succumbing the imprint of the dead potion master's soul. No matter what reasons they had. Snape could have had to face garrulous Nearly-Headless Nick, or the sobbing of Moaning Myrtle. The Baron he found a very complimentary option, in actuality.

The Baron went with a certain gait resemblant to a vulture, chin jutting slightly forward with every step, his sharp but not hawk-like nose accentuating this motion until it became almost comical. Snape was nowhere close to laughing at the Baron, however; his solemn demeanor, his slightly wistful gray eyes which were cold and objective, and his prudishly set lips made him steadfastly and undeniably grim. Not even Peeves would mess with the Bloody Baron, as Snape recalled, and that poltergeist would tease anything and everything that was safe to jeer. The Baron's flounced shirt was long beyond mend, though one could tell that it had once been the finest of fabrics, and his dark hair curled gracefully to the nape of his neck in a way Snape envied.

"May I ask you a question?" Severus was almost surprised that he had actually spoken aloud; he had so many questions, though it seemed an understatement.

"What, perchance, do you wish to know?" queried the Baron, in a manner that suggested he thought himself a worldly man who would remain unfazed by anything.

"Do we—take baths? I feel I could use one."

"It depends," the Baron muttered with a shrug. "Me, I come from a century when we only bathed when we happened upon a river. You come from an era where you are shunned if you haven't taken a bath in twelve hours."

"But is it possible for us?"

"Undeniably. All the same bodily functions we are subject to in life afflict us in this perspective as well."

_That means that I get food at some point. And I'll still have to pee and shit. At least some things never change._

The Baron saw no need to elaborate on that point, and the two traveled in silence over the Hogwarts grounds. Along the way, Severus saw men and women poring over the bodies of the fallen, these rotting in the hot midmorning sunshine.

"The battle was a bad one, I see?"

The Baron gave a discreet cough in reply. He seemed to have resumed his definite aversion to speech.

A frock of blood-matted black curled hair met Severus' eye. The potions master glided gently over to the disembodied head of Rudolph Simonian, a vicious Armenian half-blood death eater, with a grim smile. It did not entirely please him to see the horrible man _dead_, per se. As terribly as he himself had died, Severus found himself supremely grateful to have evaded such a disgusting and revolting death as to have a Sectumsempra—_my spell—_thrust at his neck. Maybe, though, he realized as he poked the head with his transparent toe, this head had lost its body _after_ death; the tissue had bled not nearly enough for the severing of the jugular vein. After this surmise, Snape shuddered and bade himself not to think of such things any longer. _What do they matter to me now?_

The question of where Rudolph found himself currently mattered more to Severus. For the first time, he wondered who had been the other one 'in the 38 chapter' giving Eve so much trouble. It could not have been Rudolph, who was in his late twenties at his best recollection, but it still could have been someone who had died in the battle. _Considering the fact that most 38 year olds are rather healthy and not inclined to death except by accident, I suppose it very likely was._

The Baron turned and reprimanded him with a glare for lallygagging. Quickly responding, Snape swept after him. At least, Snape mused with some gratification, in this half-life he had his favorite cloak to billow in the breeze as it had in reality. _Ah, it is despicable how men fall for vanity._

They had no reason to open the large castle doors, and the spectres vanished clear through them without hesitation. Severus found the experience rather startling, when one moment he floated outside, then the next instant he had entered. The sensation was rather as though he had walked through a sheet of thin rice-paper without even fracturing it. He needed a brief minute to recuperate, as the experience was rather unnerving. The Baron did not stop with him.

"Baron?" His query resounded through the abandoned Entrance Hall strangely, like a dry spot of footpath after a heavy rain. "What do I do now?"

He had not intended to phrase the question in such a simple, hopeless manner; the baron's voice held a heavy tinge of smirk with the response.

"Whatever you like."

The words sounded hollow and empty, devoid of the humor with which the poor ghost intended to infuse them.

"Nothing more auspicious than that?" Severus wished he did not feel so desperate. However, he felt rather marooned from reality with the events of the past 48 hours, and the Baron made the most handy driftwood to buoy him.

The Baron's nonchalance was rather irritating; it was clear he cared very little for anything or anybody, much less Severus. "You might come with me to Eden, if you care to."

Severus had heard of Eden before: a small tower reserved specifically for the Hogwarts ghosts. Dumbledore had designated it, one of the first things he did as Headmaster. He had, though, let the residents name it whatever they liked. They chose Eden. It came from the Bible, and probably the idea sprung from the more intellectual and dispirited of ghosts. In any case, the _real _Garden of Eden had the notoriety of being called ' Paradise', but no mortal could really live there after Adam and Eve left. Snape could see the sadistic pleasure of naming the tower after the Garden, for no mortal could really live there, either. Just ghosts who could not actually get into the everlasting 'paradise' of heaven. What a poignant irony. Probably, Snape judged after his brief experience with the Baron today, the Slytherin Ghost himself had nominated the title.

Well, Severus supposed, _if no one lived in the Garden after Adam and Eve, the flowers must have died from lack of care. Then probably Muggles likely flattened the real Garden and turned it into some very nice housing developments._ _So much for that._

Snape had no idea where he could find Eden—real one _or _Hogwarts—so he found these contemplations irrelevant. He had to float very quickly to catch up to the Baron.

"Where can I find it?"

In response, the Baron just gestured for him to come along with him.

Not too long later, the pair met a portrait of Helga Hufflepuff, who snored obnoxiously. The Baron responded to Snape's half amused, half dubious eyebrow twitch with a tired explanation.

"You wonder why we chose her as our doormarker, doubtless. Well, Hufflepuff is the only founder who does not have a relation to any of us here. Also, she never served as a Headmistress, while the other three did at one point or another. Never wanted the title, ostensibly, though I would say it was definitely a way to draw attention to her own supposed charity of spirit and self-imposed martyrdom. Bah. A cheap way to earn friends and respect, I say. But that is what influenced our decision to honor her—if it was my choice it would have been Gilliander the Fourth or some more worthy figure—but it was the opinion of others that it was the least we could do in her honor."

Severus frowned. "Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw all have relations here?"

"Yes." The Baron paused just as he floated through the portrait. "Ravenclaw's daughter is the Gray Lady. I myself am the nephew of Slytherin."

"And Gryffindor?"

"Well!" The Baron coughed. "Since A.D. 1473 we have had his second nephew by marriage, twice removed. His name is Marius Bryant. Perhaps, in the library, you have encountered him."

"You mean the studious fellow always lingering in the arithmancy sector?"

"Yes."

Severus' mind conjured an image: a pudgy, stolid face with dire need of a beardcut, bearing a pair of pince-nez that did nothing but craft its owner's face to resemble an owl's. He was on the verge of making some trifling remark, but felt as though the Baron had more to say, and so stayed his words.

Slowly, the Baron's mechanics turned, and he continued, "You know, though, that you've got more Gryffindor blood in you than he does."

Snape's reaction was similar to that of someone who, while drinking a glass of cool ice water, suddenly discovered one of his dental crowns had become dislodged and was compelled to spit out the whole mouthful to prevent accidentally choking. Indeed, he actually coughed as his mind repelled the information due to its farfetchedness. "Would you—would you perhaps repeat that?" he queried lowly, wondering what he had heard that his brain construed it into such a terrible message.

A cackling laugh erupted from the Bloody Baron, and Snape realized anew why people tended to avoid the ghost.

"Surprised you there, did I not?" the demon demanded, displaying a set of terribly-maintained teeth. Snape grimaced at the sight, though bearing in mind the minimum hygiene of the Baron's time and remembering that his own dents were not in such perfect form either.

"No, honestly, please repeat what you said. I didn't hear you correctly."

The Baron's voice, shearing enough to curdle milk, escalated as he continued to laugh irrationally loud. Snape felt his innards cringe, and he sincerely hoped he would not be like the Baron after the passing of a millennium. Suddenly, the Baron's mirth was wiped away to nothing, and his face became as serious as Snape had ever seen him. "Your blood is more Gryffindor than anyone else alive, unfortunately for you, Snape. It's come through his daughter, on down through the female line. Likely made it hard to trace, if you or yours ever tried to do the genealogy on your own. But ghosts—with an intuitive sense, like that of being able to determine the rise of another of our lot nearby--we simply know. It is a habit. We remember people, who they were related to, what branch they are descended from, how they are connected to the people of our time. And I must say, we cannot deny that you were probably the purest Gryffindor alive. Except now you're dead, without any kin, and some of us have been definitely clucking their tongues a good deal since your demise."

Severus could scarcely believe this. He stared down his nose at the Baron, who made no reply but a similar stare.

"You knew the entire time I attended Hogwarts?"

The Baron gave a motion of nonchalance. "Rather."

Severus' eyes narrowed. "Yet you never mentioned it to myself, or anyone?"

"We all assumed you should know something of that important nature. Your mother—Eileen, I recall--was incensed with genealogy, to be quite honest. She was one of the few mortals who beat me into speech with all of the questions she put to me while she was here; you ought to be proud of her."

_But she never told me_, Snape thought dismally, _She never told me I was of Gryffindor blood. _

He felt as slighted as though he had been told he was an adopted child and never alerted to the fact._ No, not quite--more as though I've been walking around with food on my face for my whole life and no one bothering to do more than laugh behind my back._

A sudden, fleeting hope prickled the back of his neck, and he proposed: "You're not joshing me, are you?"

"Why would I? It would not be very funny."

_How would I know what a maniac like you would think funny? _countered Snape mentally. Visibly, his shoulders sank. "Merlin," he said aloud, "I never would have thought--I actually _liked_ Slytherin House. And no, I'm being completely honest," he said before he could sense the look of incredulity in the Baron's eyes. "I sympathized with it. Empathized."

The Baron nodded. "A grand word which means that you genuinely lived it. I know. You made a good Slytherin, Snape."

"Thank you."

They shared a brief pause.

"If you will forgive this, I am rather glad you have joined our ranks," the Baron ventured in as consolatory a tone as he was capable of producing. "I think you may enjoy this alternative better. Here, you can still aid humankind, and be part of life, until you so tire of it as most of us have. Up there--" He gave a visible shudder. "--Just take my word at its will; do not wish to be up there. I have visited. There is nothing worthwhile for our type: the intellectual, the passionate, the . . ."

His words trailed off to meander in side-meadows and admire daffodils, however. Snape was aware of a presence approaching; the Gray Lady had come behind them.

No one said a word. The Bloody Baron, with a gruff pretense to gentility, allowed the descendant of Ravenclaw pass through the portrait by stepping carefully aside, but the exchange was terse and silent.

Snape managed a cursory examination of the woman, who stepped so softly and slowly that she rather appeared to at least think herself regal. The luxury of time was in her hands, so what was the good of swiftness? Melancholy eyes surveyed all, and yet held the same blank expression seen on corpses and people watching boring programs on the telly for hours. Her face was soft, curved, and generally gentle, although her high cheekbones and pursed lips told of a harsh inner nature. She wore costume of her period, which was roughly the same as the Baron's by Snape's estimation, though unlike the Slytherin ghost her dress was much better maintained. Dark curled ringlets made an attempt at giving away her concealed natural beauty, but their laments and struggling were disregarded by their owner who kept them held back in an austere hairpiece.

She made no eye contact with either of them, but passed them as though in the midst of a bad dream. Her stringent lips moved slightly, as though calculating a difficult math expression in her mind, but save this aspect and her trudging feet, she lacked all motion.

As Severus had a knack for noticing certain lapses of guard in people surrounding him that they would have preferred left unnoticed, he caught a certain but suppressed sigh of despair on the part of the Bloody Baron. It was just the slightest of glances, lingering a half second too long on the figure of the woman as she retreated through Helga Hufflepuff's portrait, but it was a certain way that Snape could well recognize. Having so often been the donor of such a look, Snape decided—_Well! The Bloody Baron has a soft spot for Lady Ravenclaw? What a great surprise this is! _

Yet, despite his surprise, he was not too astonished, as he watched the last trains of the Gray Lady disappear through the wall. The unhappy casting of eyes to the ground affirmed the fact that the Baron's affections were unreturned, and this prevented Snape from boiling in envy. _Poor devil_, Snape analyzed, _He's got it badly indeed. _It always made him uncomfortable to be around lovers; he told himself it was because they acted so silly, but he consciously knew also that he was truly, desperately jealous. Unrequited love he could well commiserate with, however, and he could do no less than pity the Bloody Baron and his fruitless longings.

Pondering on the subject of love, however, made Severus remember Lily and their recent encounter. A heavy weight settled in his chest, stifling him. The impact was so sudden and so painful—an entire life of devotion gone unnoticed!--that he literally crumpled. His knees hit the floor, jarring whatever form of bones he had, the vibrations coursing through him with the agony of a thousand Christs. He might have gasped, though he could not tell for certain; he could not feel anything or hear anything for a full thirty seconds. His blood pounded in his head, and it his eyes felt as though they were being attacked by cold, pointed icicles that melted to boiling liquid on contact. With the realization that he was almost crying, Severus covered his face with his hands, just quelling the tears in time, but he was shaking.

The Baron took his turn to pity Severus with a look of complete understanding. "I wouldn't relieve myself now, if I were you," the Baron suggested gently. "At night, in the darkness, hidden away from prying eyes and ears, that is the best time, I find."

Snape had nothing to say.

The Baron was similarly quiet, waiting until Snape had regained some amount of control over himself.

"I'll escort you to a vacant room we've prepared for you," the Baron suggested, "Come along."

Obedient, though ashamed of his obedience, Snape did go along. He and the Baron entered Eden.

A collective group of Hogwarts ghosts lounged about the Eden common room. The sheer number of the bodiless beings surprised Severus as they coalesced in the affable manners they sustained from life. He recognized having seen every individual at least once—he had been at Hogwarts for decades, after all—but knew them not all by name. _No matter; I have all eternity to learn. I must relish the time of my ignorance, for it is time within which I have yet to search. The journey to attain knowledge is often more satisfying than the actual retention of it._

Conversations engaged in a hubbub about him, and Snape had the acute displeasure of feeling that he was a beetle who had entered a beehive, unnoticed though flagrantly out of place.

" . . . I tell you," Nearly-Headless Nick stated, as he clearly dominated a circle of female ghosts in the center of the room. "I tell you that the poor young man looked _so _frightened when confronted with Minerva's animated armor that he almost dropped his wand and ran away!" The unscrupulous bevy giggled collectively with amusement. "I swear upon my incompetent executioner!" continued Nick, "He _nearly _dropped his wand! But that was before he saw it had . . ."

Severus turned his head to focus on another conversation, one carried between the afore-mentioned Marius Bryant and the dull figure of Professor Binns, the history ghost.

" . . . So, I made my own calculations of the number of dead, according to Bright's theorem," the only other existing descendant of Gryffindor ranted pedantically. He held a slate and chalk, and Severus espied an abacus tucked beneath his wand arm. Binns, nodding automatically whenever Bryant slowed or paused in speech, stared into oblivion. Marius rambled on with grandiloquent explanations. "Now, Bright states that if A squared plus B squared equals C squared, as also given in the Pythagorean theorem, then the method can be modified to demonstrate the losses and gains in battle. Taking, of course, all extraneous or idiosyncratic details into account . . ."

A sob drew Severus' attention to Moaning Myrtle, who lamented to the emptiest wall. ". . . I don't understand why they needed _me_, of all people, to be there? I'm just fine in my dungeons of plumbing, thanks, and you? I didn't want to join the battle, but they all said I should. But they don't know what it's like for me, . . ."

Snape hastily turned away before he got _too _involved with her angst. His eyes flew to the Fat Friar, who solemnly tried to provide some amount of solace to a female ghost Snape did not know.

"Oh, it was horrible, _horrible_, Friar! They were lashing at each other, smashing at each other, throwing hexes and curses and screaming all manner of cruelties at each other! Then I could not help but scream! 'Nymphadora Tonks, you are a disgrace to your bloodline!' I cried, weeping, 'You could not possibly _kill _your own _relation_, your own _cousin!_' Then that horrible girl threw a glance at me—a glance I shall never forget, of spite and terror it reeked! But the second she took her attention away from dear Bellatrix was all the capable woman needed to get on her feet and grasp her wand again. Then they looked at each other, not speaking a word. And Bellatrix raced off like the wind, with Nymphadora about to take pursuit. But I stopped her by . . ."

Yet suddenly, as though all on cue, every conversation dwindled to silence. Every eye centered on Severus and the Baron.

The Baron cleared his throat, though evidentially he did not find a particular calling to public speaking.

"Severus is here," he stated gruffly, reticently, as though it explained every question ever uttered in his presence. His somewhat apologetic gazing at the floor made him rather resemble a codfish salesman bombarded by a bunch of boorish reporters, unintentionally mistaken for the Prince of Wales. Of course, when the frenzy realized the codfish salesman for what he was, they turned their attention to the nearest applicable body—who, in this extended metaphor, was their figurative celebritous royalty—and thus Snape found himself just as perilously overwhelmed.

"Well, land sakes, Severus Snape, who'd ever have thought you'd-"

"-Welcome, my boy, welcome to Eden! It's a comfortable place, I'm sure, and indubitably you'll find it quite jolly once you-"

"-Why, lawks-a-mussy, puddin'-n-thyme, it's the bloke who used to give the Marauders a run for _their_ money; it's no small wonder 'im turning up 'ere-"

"-Tell us of the battle, young one of the dark eyes!-"

"-What happened to _you?_-"

Their questions thrust at him like swords, amid the shaking of his hand or the patting of his shoulders, and Severus even received a kiss on the cheek from one very stout witch's ghost. The company behaved in a very humane manner, and Severus was surprised to note that their hands felt solid to him. He surmised he was just as solid to them. This was in contrast to how physical people of the real world did not respond to touching ghosts as they would some fellow living person, in the way that all ghosts defied matter; he had so often observed live students walk through a ghost, and a few times been among the most callous and rude of such pedestrians.

As kind as it was meant to be, however, the ultimate result of the pummeling was that Severus felt a bit claustrophobic. Plus, the Bloody Baron had disappeared into the mass of bodies, emerging safe and clear of the mess. He stood with a sympathetic half-smile at the base of a staircase reminiscent of the Grand Staircase from the Titanic steam liner.

"Please--please stop."

Snape was weary of the flourishing noise, and he raised his hand in the air to deaden the voices. Like a steam train drawing to a sudden and complete stop, their speech abruptly slackened and became a prolonged hiss, which even that was soon dissipated.

"To all of you," he began with an oratorical air, "I deeply appreciate your concern and hospitality--but, if you do not mind, I believe I would like some time to become acquainted with the new--ahem-- _conditions_ I find myself presently. I would like nothing more than for you to detain your questions until a later period, and nothing more for me than some tranquility for the time being."

The brief, florid speech had a profound effect upon the ghosts.

"Yes," someone piped up, "Someone take him to his new room-"

"-Unless he'd prefer to keep himself in the headmaster's quarters until-"

"-Why on earth would he do that?-"

"-Well, up until lately he _was _headmaster-"

"-Or he could take up residence in the dungeons as he always has-"

Severus began sensing impatience rising as the ghosts clearly forgot his most urgent request for quiet. _Temper, temper,_ he growled to himself, unheard by the clamoring voices which climbed in discussion. The Baron, taking pity upon him, made a slight gesture with his head, indicating that Severus should advance. He did so, irritated that he had waited so long to escape, irked at his insensitive comrades in death, and especially irascible because the Baron's smile had widened into a grin. The ghosts paid him no attention as they continued to jabber, never noticing the subject of their conversation was moving away from the group.

"Welcome to the family," the Baron remarked, taking a candle from an arched candelabra in the hand of a cherub at the base of the stairs. It was already lit, and Severus followed his example. The ghosts proceeded to mount the staircase, which they ascended very quickly.

The top was completely dark. As they reached it, Severus realized why this was—there was not the slightest bit of solid ground beyond the open balcony. He understood this too late, and he stumbled slightly. The tallow of his candle, rich and oily, dripped as he tipped it a fraction too horizontal, but he righted it in time to save the flame. Droplets of the creamy lipid-based substance plunged into the abyss below; its hesitant _thunk _four hundred feet down was unheard by the ghosts.

"Though it is impossible for any human being to bypass through the walls to our haven without the sharpest of instruments for sawing," the Baron explained, "We like to think that we would retain our privacy even in the event that we were the recipients of intruders. Our eternal sleeps must not be disturbed, you understand."

Snape nodded in reply. Even as a human being self-endowed with the gift of flight, he might have felt great anticipation at foraging into the pith that he currently met. In actuality, even while guaranteed success in a venture through the depths with his present company, he remained cautious and wary.

"Come, it is not so frightful as you may perceive it," the Baron encouraged him, taking his arm with a firm grasp. "If you fly straight into it, you will discover that it is no more than an illusion."

Without further ado, they ran forward into the asphyxiating darkness, and emerged in a dismal Victorian hallway. It was elegantly arrayed, with lush carpets, gas-lamps and occasional piece of slim furniture that did not much clutter the generally narrow corridor. The hall seemed to stretch for miles, with a thousand and one doors and no end in sight.

"Understandably so, not all of the rooms are occupied," the Baron briefed the newcomer. "There are under fifty ghosts at Hogwarts. However, only a score and ten make any sort of appearance in these days. The remainder never leave their rooms, too drawn with apathy to find the will or energy to move. They are in a continual stupor, often brought to such an end by misery or by a Pandora's box of a-"

He stopped there, however, for the men heard an unearthly moan, muffled by the soft dimness.

"Was that one of them?" Snape asked, in a terrified awe. Although not usually the sort of person to be taken by the supernatural, he had experienced so many strange things in the past day that his strong impenetrability was beginning to waver.

"Yes." The Baron's eyes were searching his companion's face, and Snape felt rather awkward. The awkwardness had the advantage of stealing away his apprehensions about the insane-asylum atmosphere, though new misgivings took their stead. "I will tell you more about the Apathetics tomorrow, if you so care to listen."

"I daresay there will not be much more interesting to listen to," Snape replied drearily, "Though I feel that I may not be genial company for a good many days—maybe longer."

"Perhaps you never shall be. I never have been," the Bloody Baron responded amicably, then stepped to open a door. "This is your room, at least if you care to use it. I may go stalk the corridors after some conniving third-years or some such frivolity all tonight. You ought to rest. Sleep, though pleasant in our state, is not at all completely necessary, but I would recommend it after you sob wholeheartedly for a few hours. And, if you are so contentious enough, catch your tears in a vial for sale to apothocaries—they make a pretty penny off fresh ghost's tears, and a mercenary excuse is acceptable for a Slytherin in the case that anyone ever comes upon you, though that will certainly not occur here in Eden."

"You speak with experience?" asked Snape incredulously, though he felt that the Bloody Baron was a great deal kinder than he had long thought.

"I'll see you when you have risen," replied the Baron, and turned to depart.

"Wait," Snape asked, "What may I call you?"

The Baron shrugged. "I am the Bloody Baron to the common person of Hogwarts, I am Your Nastiness to Peeves, and I am simply The Baron to everyone else. If you do not wish to fall into one of those categories, my Christian name is Saturnius Slytherin."

"Saturnius?"

"But only in private, if you must use it."

"Certainly."

With that, the Baron drifted contentedly away, and Snape entered his new apartment.

Dumbledore, in building the wing for the ghosts, certainly did not give much account to expense. The lavish, if not archaic, decorations were plentiful and luxurious. Snape felt rather as though he had accidentally fallen into a Bronte novel—not that he had read any, of course, but he based his judgment from what he had heard of them. There was nothing extraordinary about the room especially, though Snape noticed it had no windows, though he was little fazed by this after years of living in the gloom of the windowless dungeons.

A grand lace-curtained four-poster beckoned to him, with a ruffled silk comforter and satin sheets. Finding it magically pre-warmed and comforting, Severus did succumb to its depths, though it was irritatingly scented with lavender. The effect was, once Snape had stripped his clothes and squirmed under the sheets, that he felt that he was the Big Bad Wolf who had swallowed Grandma whole and usurped her bed to wait for Little Red. Letting such a depressing thought lead him to yet one more distressing, and then one more distressing still, Snape made himself very despondent that night.

Prominently in his thoughts remained Lily, as usual, though he puzzled over why he had been so stupid as to believe she would care even if she _had _known how he suffered for so long. However, he was exhausted, and his exertions ended sooner than he expected when he dove into a peaceful slumber. Nevertheless, he might have made a fortune if he had thought to fetch a basin, as per the Baron's suggestion.


	4. Eden is Not a Paradise

**Chapter 4 **

A collective group of Hogwarts ghosts lounged about the Eden common room. The sheer number of the bodiless beings surprised Severus as they coalesced in the affable manners they sustained from life. He recognized having seen every individual at least once—he had been at Hogwarts for decades, after all—but knew them not all by name. No matter now, though; he had eternity to learn.

Conversations engaged in a hubbub about him, and Snape had the acute displeasure of feeling he had entered a beehive.

" . . . I tell you," Nearly-Headless Nick stated, clearly dominating a circle of female ghosts in the center of the room. "I tell you that the poor young man looked _so _frightened when confronted with Minerva's animated armor that he almost dropped his wand and ran away!" The women giggled collectively.

"I swear upon my executioner! He _nearly _dropped his wand! But that was before he saw it had . . ."

Severus unconsciously tuned into another conversation, this one carried between the afore-mentioned Marius Bryant.

" . . . So, I made my own calculations of the number of dead, according to Bright's theorem," the only other existing (but not necessarily alive) descendent of Gryffindor ranted pedantically. He held a slate and chalk, and Severus espied an abacus tucked beneath his wand arm. His listener, Professor Binns, stared into oblivion. Marius rambled on with his grandiloquent explanations.

"Now, Bright states that if A squared plus B squared equals C squared, as also given in the Pythagorean theorem, then the method can be modified to demonstrate the losses and gains in battle. Taking, of course, all extraneous or idiosyncratic details into account . . ."

A sob drew Severus' attention to Moaning Myrtle, who lamented to the emptiest wall. "I don't understand why they needed _me_, of all people, to be there? I'm just fine in my dungeons of plumbing, thanks, and you? I didn't want to join the battle, but they all said I should. But they don't know what it's like . . ."

Snape hastily turned away before he got _too _involved with her angst. His eyes flew to the Fat Friar, who solemnly tried to provide some amount of solace to a female ghost Snape did not know.

"Oh, it was horrible, _horrible_, Friar! They were lashing at each other, smashing at each other, throwing hexes and curses and screaming all manner of cruelties at each other! Then I could not help but scream! 'Nymphadora Tonks, you are a disgrace to your bloodline!' I cried, weeping, 'You could not possibly _kill _your own _relation_, your own _cousin!_' Then that horrible girl threw a glance at me—a glance I shall never forget, of spite and terror it reeked! But the second she took her attention away from dear Bellatrix was all the capable woman needed to get on her feet and grasp her wand again. Then they looked at each other, not speaking a word. And Bellatrix raced off like the wind, with Nymphadora about to take pursuit. But I stopped her by . . ."

Yet suddenly, as though all on cue, every conversation died to silence. Every eye centered on Severus and the Baron.

The Baron cleared his throat, though evidentially he did not find a particular calling to public speaking.

"Severus is here," he stated gruffly, reticently, as though it explained everything.

Snape found himself instantly overwhelmed by all the ghosts rushing at him.

"Well land sakes, who'd ever have thought he'd-"

"-Welcome, my boy, welcome to Eden!-"

"-How was the battle?-"

"-What happened, how did you-"

Their questions thrust at him like swords, amid the shaking of his hand or the patting of his shoulders, and Severus even received a kiss on the cheek from one very stout witch's ghost.

The ultimate result of their pummeling: Severus felt a bit claustrophobic. Plus, the Bloody Baron had disappeared into thin air.

"Please . . . please stop." He looked at his hand in the air cynically, as though unsure he himself had raised it. The voices again came to a hush.

"I appreciate your concern and hospitality, but, if you do not mind, I believe I would like some time to become acquainted with the new . . . ahem . . . conditions I find myself presently."

The brief, florid speech had a profound effect upon the ghosts.

"Yes," someone piped up, "Someone take him to his new room."

"Unless he'd prefer to keep himself in the headmaster's quarters until his association with humans has been determined."

"Why would he do that?"

"Or he could take up residence in the dungeons as he always has."

Severus began sensing impatience rising. 'Temper, temper,' he growled to himself, unheard by the voices which climbed in discussion. A slight tug on his shoulder aroused his attention.

"Come now," Moaning Myrtle demanded in an unnecessary whisper. "Wherever the Baron went, you aren't going, so I suppose I'll be helping you get arranged."

"That would be uncommonly kind of you." Severus could not resist raising an eyebrow. Myrtle named no reply, and the pair disappeared out through the portrait once more.

……………….

"I'm sorry I never bothered to talk to you before," Myrtle said as they glided down the stairs, her tone just bordering whining. "It's just that you never came into the girls' or prefects' bathrooms, so I never paid any _real_ attention to you." She shoved her glasses up on her nose. "But I saw you when you were a student, and I know how everyone hated you, like everyone hated me. So now you're dead, I want to talk to you more. You're less scary dead, you know."

Severus wondered if this conversation was an olive branch of friendship or a complaint for attention on Myrtle's part. Probably a mixture of both, he decided.

He said nothing, except he asked:

"I am?"

"Yes. A lot less ugly too, I would say. Probably because of the tears on your face."

Snape, stopped, startled, and placed a ginger hand on his cheek. Indeed, he felt streaks of wet.

"I had not noticed."

Myrtle smirked. "I got a hanky if you need one," she purred coyly.

" . . . No, thank you."

Snape wondered when those tears had bled from his sockets.

The pair, however, moved onwards down the stairs.

"So where did the wounds on your neck come from? A vampire?"

Severus did not stop this time, only drawing a sullen finger to outline the punctures made by Nagini.

"A snake bit me."

Myrtle grimaced. "Nasty." Her voice constricted. "Did anyone ever tell you how I died?"

" . . . No, quite truthfully." Snape felt not altogether certain he wanted to know, either.

Not taking his inchoate hint, Myrtle took the opportunity to expiate his loss of not knowing her favorite story, "Then I will." She hiccupped, then began.

"It was late in the day, and Olive had been treating me _horribly_ . . ."

But, just as she took a melodramatic breath for emphasis, weary footsteps resounded behind them. Snape turned around to face . . . Minerva McGonagall.

……………………………….

_I'm working on Chapter 5! Please rate and review! _


	5. At Least One Mourns the Wicked

**Chapter 5 **

_By the way, I feel obligated to mention that this story is written based on a prompt by my friend, _is-a-palindrome_. We actually both wrote a short story on it. Only mine got longer, for some reason. She hasn't posted her version as of yet. But look for it! _

_-------------------------- _

Pretending to ignore McGonagall's eminent encounter, Myrtle went on, "_Olive _had been treating me _horribly _all day, so, when at one point I could not keep it all in, I ran to the bathroom. It was the middle of class, so I didn't expect-"

Then she realized that Severus had no ears for her tale. His eyes flashed anger . . . pain . . . rejoicing . . . she could not tell what emotions . . . but pointed straight to the approaching Minerva.

The old woman gave a gasp and hurried forward.

"Minerva, how often has Poppy said not to run at your age?"

Not that the witch paid her departed colleague's words one bit of attention. She gazed at him in worry, sadness, and despair.

"You're back," she said, when at a reasonable distance from Severus.

"So it would seem," agreed Snape, doubtful as to whether she should immediately commence screaming at him or want to embrace him.

_"_Damn you,Severus;_ why did you not let us know about the whole fiasco once you had killed him?!" _

A bit of both, Severus thought amusedly. She was mad, but her eyes had glossed over with tears.

Myrtle turned on him grumpily. "You found who _you _need. I'll be gone, now . . . for who wants to listen to a dreadful, silly ghost!" So saying, she floated hurriedly away with a sob.

Minerva and Snape paid her no heed.

A withered hand flew to the face of the aged witch. "I apologize for shouting," she announced bluntly, inhaling deeply as though to regain her composure.

"It's just . . . rather startling to see you here, like this."

Taking a rather nonchalant air quite unusual to him, Severus leant against the railing and gazed rather plaintively at McGonagall. She had always, at separate intervals, intimidated him, impressed him, or disgusted him. Intimidated, for she managed to carry herself with a fixation of primness and austerity Snape only vaguely emulated. Impressed, for he admired her presence of mind and ability to remain so unruffled even under the most extreme circumstances. Disgusted, for she sometimes let her severe Gryffindor bias show. He could not truthfully hold this against her, though, since he displayed a flagrant partiality towards Slytherins.

In any case, with these feelings of intimidation, impression, and disgust, Severus never had found it in him to accept her occasional friendly gestures. Dumbledore might have trusted her second-to-most implicitly of all his staff (Snape ranking first, he supposed) but Severus never let that influence their acquaintanceship. He eyed her with the same nature of general distrust he did all the teachers in his youth, and his colleagues later in life. She never could care about a young Slytherin bastard anyways; what purpose could he serve her except to provide a bad example to her Gryffindors. 'Look, all of you' he suspected she would say after he had done or declared something abominable and departed, 'Look, all of you, _never_ imitate such behavior as produced by that young Slytherin! His deeds reflect his coldhearted, callous, _cowardly_ soul.' Later, of course, she would still probably talk about him to her students: 'Professor Snape certainly never learnt to hold his tongue, did he? Don't be taking any amount of pity on him; he can't possibly deserve it. Dreadful man.' To other teachers, she might allude to him less generality but certainly with no fewer misapprehensions: 'A devil of a fellow who ought to have been dragged to Azkaban years ago. I don't see how Dumbledore could tolerate such a man and his teaching here, much less how parents could cope with it! Yet at least he never allows Severus the position as D.A.D.A. instructor. That will be the day we all curl in our beds and die.'

Of course, Snape knew everyone hated him, so they should all agree to whatever the staunchly Gryffindor headmistress declared behind his back. What a horrible life he led. At least, though, now she seemed full of mild penitence.

"Potter explained my role in this war to you, then, I presume?" Severus tried to bring the attention less from his newly gained state of death and transparency to learn instead what transposed during the battle. He hoped Potter had said less, and not more, however. Though, since the boy's acumen certainly had a lower level than most, he little doubted each of the so-long carefully guarded secrets would haunt him. He imagined people—living people, like Rita Skeeter—would rather take some fun in utilizing and exploiting the images he had provided to clear his name. Other people too, people besides writers and poets, however, would eventually find the true self of Severus Snape at their doorstep. Or their computer mouse, if wizards ever adopted the Muggle concept of the internet. (He grimaced.) In fact, practically everybody he had ever heard of, and consequently a great number he had _never_ heard of, should know his deepest desires, contemplations, and experiences. They would know his true place in the war, of course, but also his motive to return from the dark depths of Death Eater-ism: his love for Lily.

As though echoing his thoughts, McGonagall nodded with the reply: "He told us you loved Lily Evans."

That probably stung the more than all the rest. Everyone on Earth would know what a select few had known for decades . . . and what the girl herself had only very recently learned! The gossip would subside eventually, of course, when all those who had any interest in the Potters died. No one had any interest in Snape, of course—but the fact that he had loved a popular, yet dead woman for years, even upon her rebuking him—that would make him famous. Or infamous, as the case would later prove. At least, Severus consoled himself, Minerva had the tact to call the girl by her maiden name. He added another note to the mental list of McGonagall's best aspects: she knew how to address delicate matters without making them sound so bad.

Severus sighed. "I might have been content with the brand of Death Eater on my name for eternity if it had prevented him from openly declaring my distress." He might have denied her stated question, but he felt the hopelessness of doing so settle heavily on his stomach.

He went on, "I fear my image has been permanently ruined by his 'it-is-my-personal-responsibility-to-save-every-individual-in-the-world' syndrome. Such a bother." Snape tried to make the matter lighter with a dissatisfied laugh, but only succeeded in a pained sigh. "Pray give me the gruesome details of his deliverance now, before they reach me from admirers. I highly suspect he carved me into a martyr, a hero of sorts. Depending on his audience, of course."

"He did that, somewhat, during the battle with . . . oh, I suppose I can say his name now . . . Voldemort." Minerva admitted with an echo of Severus' own sigh. "It was before nearly every man or woman in society who matters, unfortunately. But he only revealed your actual memories to myself."

Snape's stony glare told her something had gone amiss before he said a word. "He went _that _far, did he?" His customary sneer rose, a testification to his disliking. "All of the ones I gave him?"

"I'm sorry to say this, Severus, but I suppose so. He removed none from the pensieve before showing me."

Snape's nose lifted just a bit, to tilt his face in a different direction that did _not _allow Minerva to see the slight residue of saline collecting in the beds of his eyes. "No matter," he replied, giving a bitter laugh. "Not as though my privacy matters anymore, now that I'm dead and gone, after all . . ." He mentally shook himself and sardonically commented, "I would deduct points from Gryffindor for his imprudence, Minerva, I don't suppose that in my current capacity, they would apply. Oh, but I quite forgot—he found it too far below himself to attend school this year, did he not?" He gave another poignant bark of a laugh, but this time had afterwards naught to say.

At once, McGonagall could not bear to look at him anymore, and subsided into tears.

"Come now, I can't have scared the headmistress of Hogwarts as badly as that. I was not even trying."

But, seeing her now, he somewhat softened. Maybe she had not detested him so much as he thought.

"Severus," she finally whispered, "I thought so badly of you all last year. I called you a coward to your face, last night. I cannot say how genuinely sorry I am for that."

"I accept your apology, Minerva."

The old woman went on, almost ignoring his last words. "I am sorry for every evil thought I ever had which manifested its negativity towards you. I am sorry for how my hatred for your visage and words overpowered my soul, and I am sorry for how my fonder memories of you I detested!"

"You had fond memories of me?" Severus almost asked, but resisted the temptation to make her elaborate on those. In all probability, those consisted of very embarrassing conversations or incidents concerning him revealing his emotions, his 'deeper side'. He had no desire to hear her reminisce of them.

McGonagall went on with her lamentations, however, unaware of his mental thoughts. (Duh.)

"Obviously, I am infuriated at Albus for never trusting me. And for not trusting you, of course. He didn't like to put all his cards in his hands, so it seems—always had one or a dozen up his sleeve, I'm sure. But I suppose it makes sense now. Powerful men always have their tricks, and Albus was no exception. Though why I ever thought him so innocent and straightforward all my life I probably shall never reason. He had a certain . . . way . . . and his single word sounded more honest than those of a hundred other, less screwy people. I rather regret placing so much honor to him for so long . . . it is a terrible thing to see one's greatest fortress of protection struck down, only to learn afterwards it had been imaginary!"

McGonagall had her handkerchief out, and desperately wrung it in her hands.

Severus lamely came to the great dead wizard's defense. "He was not a bad man, in essence."

"And neither were . . . are? . . . you, Severus," McGonagall sobbed. She put her head down, and so riled the ghost's pity that the dead potions master placed his hand on her shoulder in some amount of comfort.

"We were all deceived," Severus murmured softly, trying to bring the conversation away from him again. But Minerva had other ideas. She looked him in the eye steadily, dabbing at her face with the kerchief.

"Severus, how are you an . . . ahem . . . an undead?"

This was the first time anyone had posed the question, and Severus himself did not know how to answer.

"It is up for conjecture, for the reason I find myself rejected from eternal rest remains a riddle," he confessed tediously, a bit disgusted at his alliteration. "I was killed by Nagini," he added, demonstrating with a single pale finger the rings of blood at his neck.

"The snake?"

"Yes."

Minerva paused. "I recall Potter said you died in the Shrieking Shack, but neglected to give the details." She clearly hinted that she wanted to remedy this, but Snape did not feel the need to enlighten her. Granger or the Boy Who Lived could do that better than he. His noncommittal shrug showed that he intended to say no more, and he noticed with faint amusement when she closed her eyes. The old woman made mental note to ask them about it, just as he suspected of her. She did not linger in creating it long, however. "I shall be sure to place flowers at your tomb often, Severus. I'm sure it will not be hard to place your corpse, in honor, near that of the headmaster."

"It better be in honor," Severus warned, "Or I resolve to seize my own lifeless body one uneventful night and bury it in a more decent grave." He reflected on this a moment. "I might still do that anyways. For, after being so closely attached to Albus in my life, I feel apprehension in being in such proximity after death."

"If you must, do not let yourself be seen doing so. It would dissatisfy many."

Minerva had resumed her calmer appearance by now, and ceased to cry. Like many, Severus figured, she could not spare many tears of grief for the greasy git.

"Are you staying here?" she asked quietly, with some reverence. "I'm sure the ghosts of Eden will be very kind to you."

"Kind as compared to humans, yes. I am remaining at Hogwarts for the time—for, after all, what more natural a place for a slimeball like me? Perhaps I might even teach again, if you want."

"If _you _want," Minerva kindly corrected, and walked away quickly. Not so swiftly, though, that Snape could not hear the first of many oncoming sobs, muffled behind the prim laced handkerchief.

_Huzzah! This ended up pleasantly long, I think. I'm working on Chapter 6! Please rate and review! _


	6. Of Hagrid, Romeo & Juliet, and The Brew

**Chapter 6 **

"If one has any advantage being like this," Severus mused to himself as he floated down the stairs, "It is that one can never grow physically older." He liked this idea immensely. "I never could picture myself with gray hair, after all . . ."

He had decided not to let his thoughts dwell on McGonagall. After all, she had just apologized to him for her cruelty over the years, and he had not scorned her. He had no reason to feel concerned, except for her crying. The problem of _why _she cried, though, did not cease to bother him.

Had someone—a woman, no less--truly felt themselves moved to shame for their past actions towards him? Or did she have greater, more important items on her mind that brought the wetness to her optics? Probably the latter. But the only other alternative he could conjure made sense also—she pitied him.

Pity—such a brief word, yet it expressed insurmountable amounts of emotions. Feelings one might feel for a child's abandoned doll, lost along the roadside. A pit at the base of one's stomach that deepened when observing the torture of a defenseless Muggle. The sense of heartbreak that one experienced when seeing someone following a treacherous path, when one could do nothing about it. That, Severus decided, defined the word aptly. He had experienced each of those occasions at least once, actually.

A quotation came to his mind by Robert Cormier, a current Muggle writer:_ "As pity moved into that hole inside her, she discovered how distant pity was from hate, how very far it was from love." _Snape could scarcely recollect anything about the book from which he remembered it . . . he found the words and plot terrible, something about a middle-aged-man in love with a teenager . . . but he had never forgot that single sentence. His memory had that strange idiosyncrasy—forget everything about a situation except the idea in it which struck him down and beat him about the brow with a sledgehammer. The book had come to him in . . . what, '92? The idea, at the time, had seemed applicable to his past situation with the by-then-dead Lily. Had Lily felt a hole in her soul that contained hate to an utmost degree? Did some pity for him eventually seep into it, and, if so, did that cause the deterioration of their friendship? Or did she originally become friends with him out of mere pity? Which alternative did he prefer? Snape could not decide. Neither, he supposed, but the day he believed that, the gnargles that so plagued Luna Lovegood would attack him. In either case, Lily did not love him—never had, never would. So hopeless.

Severus' reverie interrupted as he inadvertently passed through a large mass of flesh and muscle. He stopped short and looked up into the face of Hogwart's resident half-giant.

"Hagrid!" Startled, he had naught else to say.

The gnarly caretaker managed a shy grin through his inordinate amount of tears.

"Hullo, Professer. I wasn't supposin' I'd ever see ye again."

"Nor I, either. Vice versa, I mean." Snape did not suppose, though, that he especially lamented the notion of never meeting the kindly large man again. After the many _sweeping_ embraces, heavy handshakes, and hard-tack quality scones over the years, he never had really regretted the idea of missing out on these in the afterlife. Though, however, one could make a good case of debating that Snape had not truly given them a passing thought.

"We jes' brought in yer body a while ago. I was goin' to go fin' McGonagall to tell 'er the news. You seen 'er yet? She's in a right state about ye—horrified she'd been so wrong and mean to yer." He smiled sadly. "But she's not to blame: all of us, sorry to tell yer, but all of us kinda thought you'd done in Albus 'cause of your work for You-Know-Who."

Severus grimaced. "That is . . . quite all right, Hagrid. You were supposed to think as much."

A damn good job he had done of the job, too! No one had suspected! People had thought it odd of him, somehow, but no one had believed for an instant that Severus S. Snape had ever arranged an agreement with Dumbledore. No one had supposed, even in jest, that Snape and Dumbledore had known all the laid plans, months in advance. A credit to his name, Severus mentally smirked. At least he had that to embellish his otherwise completely useless life.

A sigh erupted from the half-giant, recalling Snape's mind to the matter at hand: one very-close-to-sobbing groundskeeper, whose tears could fill a frying pan in two minutes. If Severus wanted to keep his shoes dry . . . oh, wait. He had died. His shoes would not find themselves affected if Hagrid soaked them in saline. But still, probably, for Filch's sanctity, Severus had better cheer Hagrid up, somehow.

"Want to go out for a drink?" Snape found himself asking before he could stop himself. What harm could it do? They could both get drunk and forget about things for a while. A nice gesture to a man who had never done him ill. For, after all, Hagrid had never taunted him, ever, or even treated him half as badly as most people. "Like old times," he tacked on lamely, thinking of the days before Voldemort's return. Back then, when neither he nor the groundskeeper had much to do, they often ended up emptying cask after cask at The Hog's Head.

"Sure," sniffled Hagrid. "Jes' lemme get this las' stretcher into the hospital wing."

"I'll come along," nodded Severus, and the pair set off in relative silence—relative due to Hagrid's occasional blubbering comment.

………………..

The hospital wing had divested itself temporarily of its nurse and wounded patients. Instead, row after row of swelling corpses lined its floors. Death eaters and Order members lay side by side, some whose side remained undistinguishable from the others.

"That's the las' one, I think," Hagrid remarked, placing the stretcher and corpse he bore upon the ground. With a pang, Snape recognized Remus Lupin.

"Bastard," Snape declared, swallowing the lump that mysteriously lodged itself in his throat. "The last of the damned Marauders. Finally. Too bad, though, how he just after that kid was born. I frankly do not trust that girl Nymphadora to take good care of . . ."

But his speech ended as Hagrid wordlessly pointed to the very badly mutilated picture of Tonks, dead, just across the room.

"Put them together," Snape asked suddenly, on impulse. "They never were the most decent folk, but they at least had something I never did."

Hagrid did not bother Severus to elaborate, thankfully. Instead, he did as the ghost bade him, and soon the dead lovers lay, side by side.

"A regular Romeo and Juliet. How perfectly revolting."

With a sniffle, Hagrid placed their hands together, intertwining them in a rather unnatural manner.

"Even worse," Snape commented obdurately, but nevertheless found that he felt rather good about the action. "Come now, to The Hog's Head. I'm paying—for what else have I to buy, these days?"

………………….

The Hog's Head sign on the door read 'Closed', but Aberforth recognized Hagrid and Snape from an upstairs window and hastily let the dismal pair inside.

"Snape! Whatever happened to you?" demanded Aberforth Dumbledore gruffly, practically forcing them inside. "You look like . . . oh Merlin. Horrible." He blinked a bit, then stuck out his hand to place it on the potions master's shoulder. Of course, it sank through it like mist. "Excuse my asking, but did you . . . erm . . . kick the bucket?"

"Rather." Snape's grim smile gained the complete sympathy of the barman.

"Dear lord mercy me. You sit right on down, I'll fetch the ghost's Brew immediately."

Well. Snape had forgotten the fact that he could not ingest regular food or drink. How convenient, though, that The Hog's Head carried stuff for such abnormal customers as himself. Funny, though; he had come here two days ago for a bit of--normal--scotch.

"What for you, Hagrid?" Aberforth asked the half giant, interrupting Snape's thoughts.

Hagrid shrugged. "Firewhiskey, fresh an' cold if ye can get it."

"Of course." Aberforth disappeared in an instant, and came back with two mugs. One foamed and smelled like the familiar firewhiskey Snape partook often of in life. The other had misty, swirling vapors rising from it, and a sort of musty scent. The vapors, actually, greatly resembled those that made up ghosts like Severus himself.

"Strange stuff," commented Hagrid, sniffing it suspiciously. Snape tried to pretend _not _to notice a hair from the groundskeeper's beard fall into his drink.

"True that," Aberforth agreed, pulling a chair up to their table. "I hope you don't mind me bothering you both, but I'm not officially open today, and I want to know about the battle. Was going to go up to Hogwarts later to learn what happened after volleys of kids came crawling through my bar. But I guess you can save me that trip. These and any others to follow are on the house, by the way," he declared genially, gesturing to the mugs of the men.

"I'm compromised by this generosity," Severus nodded delicately, though he had not taken a sip as of yet, "And will be pleased to offer all I can to you. However, I can not guarantee more than a very limited version of the battle since, so early before the climax I became . . . incapacitated." Severus realized that, really, humankind had developed a great number of terms applicable or synonymous to the phrase 'I/he/she/it died'. And, yet, still people consider it a tactless subject. Probably this caused, sequentially, the many phrases for the physical state.

"Ah. I see." Aberforth's tone intimated a wink, but his countenance remained stern. "So what caused your . . . loss?"

"My untimely demise . . . oh hell, let's just call it death." Snape's brash, despairing tone seemed hidden beneath a thin coat of humor. "Yes, shocking. I'm dead. Dead as a doornail. Let's not bother with indirect word games for no reason except politeness. I've never regarded any manner of chivalry, and don't intend to start doing so now. Consider my commensurate brusqueness to be rudeness; I am fine by that. I just believe that it's stupid to sugar the truth. Why make it sound better than it is? No point in it." Here, as though for dramatic effect, he lifted the hitherto untouched mug to his lips and sucked into his mouth the strange gas-liquid it contained.

It bit his throat, stinging it harder than even firewhiskey. The gods may drink ambrosia, man may drink beer and wine, but only a ghost knows the pleasures of The Brew. More exquisite than any other flavors he had ever tasted, more sharp than swallowing glass or molten lava. A pleasurable sense of loftiness ensconced him. His stomach, light from lack of food since his death, plummeted inside him.

"That stuff kills a human who takes even a sip of that. Chock full of e'ry poison in existence, The Brew is. Belladonna, cyanide, ptomaine, everything. All brewed in such a way that it all becomes almost a gas. Dreadful hard to make." Aberforth had a good knowledge of what he served, and lost no opportunity to inform his customers about what they drank—as long as it had some interest.

"But go on with your jeremiad. I mean, what caused your _death_?" Aberforth's voice again held a twinkle of amusement, but more subdued this time.

Snape's finger, for the fourth or fifth time that day, went to his neck. "Snake bite. Serpent by the name of Nagini. The Dark Lord's own. Not a pretty sight, I must say. Barely warned Potter in time before I died."

"Warned Potter about _what?_" queried Hagrid, who had remained quiet until this time.

And Snape told them. Perhaps the drink had already gotten to his brain. Perhaps he did not feel as though any of it mattered any more. Perhaps, though, he just felt as secure as he ever could, snug between the two men he knew would never intend on telling about it. In the end, though, no matter his reasons, he ended up by revealing every single note of the truth to Hagrid and Aberforth. From his early friendship with Lily to the Dark Lord's betrayal for the sake of the Elder Wand. At times, he got so vehement that he pounded the table in anger—it resounded supernaturally louder, and Severus made a mental note not to do that again unless he wanted Hagrid to again spit firewhiskey all over the table in surprise. Finally, though, he had satisfactorily concluded the long, tedious tale, and the three sat in silence to digest.

"So that's what happened," mumbled Aberforth in awe.

"Yes, simply." By this time, Snape had finished off his mug of Brew, plus three more besides. Hagrid had done far better, and an uncountable number of empty mugs sat placidly at the end of the table. Even Aberforth had partaken of a shot of scotch over the course of the story.

"It's my turn to fill in what happened after all that, though" Hagrid mumbled. "Not much, of course, but enough."

So he related, in more words than befitted the situation, the final last battle between Voldemort and Harry.

Snape felt as though he should incinerate right then and there, when Hagrid 'quoted' Harry's speech to the Dark Lord, but he could not find the negative energy. Strangely, the poisons that flowed in his non-carbon body seemed to take out any hatred and bellicose thoughts—the adverse true of man's liquor. Perhaps his destiny as a ghost did not seem so bleak, after all, if he could somewhat experience happiness through drink. Besides, the words that 'Harry said' included many that Severus had used in his florid descriptions of his own tale, so he little doubted some of the ideas presented in the 'speech' might have also come from that. He could always double-check Hagrid's account with any of the other 'thousand people there' so he did not worry awfully.

At the time Hagrid finished, Aberforth smiled painfully. "I'd say this were my turn for a story," he declared, "Except that it's ten o'clock, and I need to be up by six tomorrow, and an old man like myself needs a lot of sleep."

Taking the not-so-well-veiled hint, Hagrid and Snape finished off the drinks they had in hand, took a few bottles for themselves each, and stumbled back to Hogwarts singing raucous choruses of 'Fifty nine bottles of firewhiskey on the wall'.

Severus made sure to escort Hagrid to his hut, for the way had no lights. Also, the half-giant tended to stumble when so thoroughly steeped. He tumbled into bed almost as soon as they got the door open, and the men parted with laughed goodnights.

As he floated through the castle, Snape wondered where he would pass the night. They did say something about a room at Eden for him, did they not? But he did not want to spend his first night of death in an unfamiliar place. Definitely, he would not dare consider the headmaster's room. Perhaps, though, he might get into the dungeons.

So down he went.

……………………

_I have compiled my entire plotline by now. This should end up a good long read, in the end: estimated 34 chapters. Next chapter up tomorrow! Thanks for reading and reviewing! _


	7. Suddenly Solid

**Chapter 7 **

Severus began gently winding down the numerous flights of stairs to the dungeons. The effects of the Brew continued within him, but he knew they would soon come to an end. No good thing lasts forever, even intoxication. Nevertheless, Snape felt that the poisonous polymer dispelled all the relentless anger and loathing he had accumulated over the years. A most refreshing feeling, really, though temporary. Additionally, though, he grew more pensive with each floating step, and he relapsed into an intense stage of thought.

He could not remember, for the life of him, a more pleasant night in the past twenty-three years besides this evening. The last instance he had even come close, it had sufficed to fall immediately down upon his shoulders. But, though he strained, he could not even recall the details. A shame, that.

Still, this very vague memory did not deter the emotions he experienced tonight! Yet, he pondered with a caution that felt foreign to him, what had elapsed in the course of the evening to give him such a sense of liberation? A sense of freedom, of long-borne shackles thrown from his heart? The only supposition he could make: his confidence with Hagrid and Aberforth.

Speaking of the pair, what on _Earth_ had made him spill his life story upon them, such as he never had done before to anyone? Except Albus Dumbledore, of course, but he . . . that man had an exception. Aberforth and Hagrid had not that especial exception, nor any other, really. Just that Aberforth wanted to know why Snape had died, and the potions master had plunged into the most garrulous moment in his personal history. What had made him so vulnerable to their presence, tonight? What had made him internally collapse, to let them gaze a moment upon his frightful soul's eye? Had the fact that Harry's unveiling spurned him on to talk—had he felt a sense of dejection or betrayal?

Frankly, no. Harry might have not mentioned his name at all in his final 'remorse' speech to Voldemort, and Severus felt he would have opened up to Aberforth and Hagrid just the same.

What about the liquor, then? For the lack of self-control in his words, anyone might easily blame the Brew. Nay, Severus decided, though truly the beverage might have impacted the vivacity and color of his tale, he doubted that he could have held off the story had he resisted a taste. Then the bar itself, perhaps? The sense of privacy in the otherwise vacant bar, at his elbows two men who earnestly wanted to hear his story? No, Severus fiercely told himself, that did not provide an explanation as to why, now, he still did not regret having said a word.

So Severus puzzled over this enigma in his head, contorting the question in his mind to see it from various different views. Nevertheless, in the end, he only had one answer—trust. Did he _trust _Hagrid and Aberforth? He squirmed a bit at the proposition—not entirely because of them, or their characters, but because he thought so lowly of the action. Trust—what else could he make of it?

He had known from an early age that any secret he told his father earned him a beating, good news or not! If he ever confided in his mother, somehow still his father would come to know, and an inhumane fit of violence should ensue. Sylvia, his squib sister, had too many years to go before she might understand half of what he could tell her. Their age gap had almost a decade. Lily, of course, he had trusted intimately with his best side, but his worst he had purposefully hidden. It scared her off even glancing it from a distance, poor innocent girl. Never mind the fact that he lost both her small amount of trust and her love with the great 'mudblood' incident. Needless to say, Severus had trusted most of his life to Albus Dumbledore, up to a point. But Snape felt the need to break away from even _that _crutch the day he learned that Potter had to die, after all . . .

Thinking of that, actually, Severus remembered from Hagrid's story how Harry had, emphatically, _not _died, and had gone home to the Burrow that morning with the Weasleys. What a letdown for Albus, if the latter still watched all this, Severus mused. Did Albus still watch him from paradise, now, after Snape had become a ghost? He wondered, but the idea did not perturb him.

Instead, Snape felt more perturbed by a sudden gleam of avarice that enthralled his body. A sneaking hope surreptitiously crept into his mind, that Harry should wed someday soon and have daughters that may perhaps bear the semblance of Lily . . . But with disgust, Snape found himself lusting after their as-of-yet-unconcieved apertures. Definitely, the Brew's least enjoyable side effects included a severe stimulation—at least, on him. What else could have caused this; he never thought this way ordinarily. He found it ghastly, revolting, and decided only Malfoy worthy of such an emotion. (Though, he could not deny so many men and women besides Lucius could also succumb to its beastly nature!)

Severus desperately wanted to get into his dungeons even more, now, if for any reason but to get some calming potions for his internals. Finally, he reached the entrance to his bedchamber, already his morbid desires ebbing. A fortunate thing, too—for a teenage girl had fallen asleep against his door.

………………….

Snape recognized with surprise the raggedy, dirty-blonde hair of the girl's head. Luna Lovegood. How had she come here? Why should she? Severus half considered slipping through her body and into his locked chambers, leaving the exhausted Ravenclaw for morning (or Filch, whichever came first) to discover. However, Luna's eyelid fluttered, proving that she no longer needed waking.

"Professor Snape?" she asked aloud, timid yet not at all frightened. She seemed to have expected his emergence from the shadows, not at all afraid of his ghostly visage.

"Miss Lovegood." He hoped his gaze would intimate his desire to know why she sat there so. She rose uncertainly in reply, then confidentially mused:

"Don't worry, I don't want to talk about Lily, or the battle, or Harry, or anything that happened yesterday, really."

Wise girl, she always had a knack for compassion and empathy.

"I thank you," Snape replied, a courtly bow following his words.

Luna said nothing for a moment, pursing her lips in agitation and rubbing her temples like an old man might. Then, as though she finally made the decision to broach an uncertain subject, she burst out, saying,

"My father always admired you when you were both in school."

The idea somewhat stunned Snape. Xenophilius Lovegood, admire him? Such a statement, coming from a girl like Luna, Severus could regard as actual fact. Nevertheless, he longed for her to reassure him of a _platonic_ devotion. Not romantic.

She did. "He always did indeed," went on Luna, gaining momentum slowly bur surely. "Many times he said so to me." She took a careful breath. "I admired you as a teacher also, Professor."

Then Snape noticed, with a small amount of chagrin, the tearstains that covered her cheeks. She must have fallen asleep crying.

"Miss Lovegood, permit me to ask, but is . . ." _something wrong_? He intended to add, but stopped as the girl put a regal hand up, in quiet request for him to silence himself.

"My father once got a hold of some of your essays in . . . Journalism class," Luna stated, her voice on the verge of breaking, "And when he read them, he said he was transformed. Afterwards, he always aspired to write like you. Though I've never seen your work myself, from what I know of you, and from what I know of my father's judgments, I'm sure it was excellent." She paused again, grasping an iron lamp-stand for support.

"I doubt you ever knew about his inspiration, for he said he never would dare admit to reading the papers from the wastebasket, but it's true."

Snape set his memory back a few decades. Journalism class . . . taught by Professor Zangteno. A wiry little man with sharp red hair and glasses. Everyone swore, behind his back, that the man had a sexual relationship with the then-Qudditch-master Harold Brown. Not that they could prove it. Anyways, even if the teacher had a gay streak, and even though everyone considered it the nerdiest, most boring class at Hogwarts, Snape took Journalism. Willingly so, because, of the Marauders, only Lupin attended. Severus had spent less time compiling for the very low-maintenance (pass or no pass; gradeless) elective than using the time to study more challenging subjects undisturbed. However, what little he had added to the Hogwarts News had a certain wit and charm over which Zangteno raved. The latter tried to convince Severus to write more, and even got papers so that Snape could apply at the Daily Prophet for an internship. Not that Severus took him seriously for an instant. Strange how these things could come back with such a brief mentioning.

"I can see that," he said solemnly. "But why tell me about this now?"

Luna looked like a slave suggesting a manumit for her littlest sister, like one of the brothers appealing to Joseph in the Bible to spare Benjamin.

"He died," she finally declared, a fresh coat of tears slipping from beneath lowered eyelids. "He wanted to come and help fight here in the battle. So he snuck away from where the Weasleys insisted he remain, and he left their protection to come here. He encountered some fleeing Death Eaters on the way, and they killed him without mercy. I only heard this morning, when I wondered why he had not come—like the parents of all the other children . . ."

She gave a piteous sob that wrenched her mortal flesh—once so pure and beautiful, but scarred and bruised with her work for Dumbledore's Army over the course of the year. In spite of himself, Snape felt himself overcome with pity. Before he knew his own action, his own ghostly arm draped around Luna in comfort. She did not pull away, as he supposed she would do. In pleasant shock, he did not break the embrace.

After a time had passed, and Luna had regained self-control, she managed a smile into his strained countenance.

"I always knew you had a heart," the only remaining member of the Lovegood family divulged, as though his simple hug had proved anything.

Ignoring the comment rather cruelly, Snape looked deeply into Luna's eyes. The teacher and the pupil, the ghost and the mortal; neither tore the eyes away from the other's.

"My parents never were among those who came," Severus whispered, so quiet that if Potter had lay at their feet covered in his damned invisibility cloak, the boy never could have caught the phrase.

The words, though simple in themselves, meant a great deal more to both Luna and Severus than just the obvious. _I know how you're feeling, I know what you're going through, I feel sorry for you, I care about you, I don't want you to be unhappy, don't let this hold you back in life, but grieve all you like to me, I alone can understand such things, I alone can help you through these troubled times, accept my friendship and trust, call on me to help you. _These things Severus meant, and these things Luna interpreted. Their gaze still did not sever.

"The whole reason I came, though," Luna said, her eyes yet intertwined with Severus', "Is that I was hoping . . . well, I know so little about business matters . . . and since you're such a great writer . . . maybe . . . you could help me manage the Quibbler?"

Snape had to drop his eyes. The Quibbler, he well knew, had only succeeded with the zeal and industry of Xenophilius. But he also did not want to find himself affiliated with the least revered media in the country . . .

"Please," Luna begged. "I know my family has, to the world, always been considered . . . eccentric. I'm alone now, Professor. I turn of age this year, and I intend on keeping whatever bits of my father I can alive. The Quibbler might be a piece of trash, which I know it is, but I loved my father, and, by Merlin, I love the Quibbler for my father's sake!"

Snape's eyes grew wide at this. Luna had more insight than he had ever supposed of her. A new side showed to her, less like a lost kitten now then a mother cat desperate to save her kit. Overnight, she seemed to have grown into a woman—a sensible, good-willed, intelligent woman. Perhaps more so than her father.

For this burst of maturity from her, he decided, on impulse, to do this thing.

"Leave my name out of it," he demanded gruffly. "But I shall help you nonetheless."

Her arms threw themselves around his waist, and a pair of gentle butterfly lips grazed his cheek. But they grazed a _solid_ cheek.

Both Severus and Luna took a step back in astonishment, and instantly Severus became transparent and pearly once again.

"Queer," muttered Snape. He advanced on Luna and laid his arm over her shoulder again. In a second, he had become a solid man again, until he drew his limb from her.

"I never saw that, before," he murmured softly, completely dazed.

"Neither I," Luna remarked. She added, with wonderment: "No wonder you could hug me, before. I didn't notice it then, though."

She then stated what had settled in Severus' own mind at the same second:

"I guess love can prevail through death."

Luna Lovegood kissed his cheek again, standing on tiptoe. "Thank you so much, Professor," she reminded him, "Thank you for helping to save my father for me."

Then, still in a stupor, Luna walked away towards the staircases, not looking back to see Snape change completely back into his ghost's form.

……………………..

_No, neither Snape nor Luna loves the other—at least in this fic. Just to clarify. 8th chapter shall be pretty interesting, I think so look forward to it! _


	8. No Longer a Rich Man

**Chapter 8 **

Snape fell into a reverie of contemplation when Luna disappeared. Had he really agreed to what he remembered, to help Luna with the Quibbler in the coming years? Luna, the girl so little liked by most, and so much ignored by those who called her 'friend'? The child of so much intelligence and insight, but of such a naïve, innocent nature she might have just emerged from the womb? The devoted and naturally talented student who always strove to do well, for others and herself? The poor dear who lived a creative, enthusiastic, and patient lifestyle, who endured so much yet shed not a tear of self-pity? She had strange ways, Luna Lovegood, but she had not deserved the death of her father. Even after Voldemort had vanquished in the great duel against Harry Potter, Xenophilius had died. A shame, a true shame. Even those not intimate with Xenophilius and Luna could easily tell how they loved each other, how they relied so greatly on each other, how they shared so much affinity for each other?

Yes. Snape had done so. He considered what this meant to him and his future. His mind clouded with visions of long conversations about Blibbling Whatnots, discourses on fonts or typesets, and debates on comma usage. But Severus saw that Luna needed him for more than just the typical sounding board for ideas or editor of the Quibbler. She needed a new father figure in her life. Someone she could talk to, to someone to hear her honest thoughts about any subject. Someone who would give her advice when needed, who knew better than herself. She required someone who she could rely on to help her. Then that word came into Severus' mind again: trust. Luna needed someone to _trust_. She wanted someone who would not try to take advantage of her innocence and frailty. She did not want someone she could end up pretending to love, someone who would eventually try and organize an unwanted marriage with her. She might, Snape reflected, have chosen far worse.

His only doubts pertained to his own readiness to accept the situation. Although he imagined the idea of death adding about one hundred years to his life, he knew age did not warrant eligibility to advise. Snape had done a sotting bad job with his own life—how did he know that, with his guidance, Luna's might end up just as devastated? How did he know that the point of view he helped Luna to mold would not collapse on her in time? How did he know that he could, in truth, help her?

But, he remembered, Luna, for all her purity and unsullied nature, had not disconnected her umbilical chord yesterday. She had endured everything a healthy sixteen-year-old should . . . and much more, besides. Her intelligence and quickness made up for her eccentricities, and her perception remained clearer than many men older than Snape. He could not radically reformat anything more than perhaps the page margins in the Quibbler, and she did not intend him to do so. She wanted to love him as a father, as a surrogate parent, and she expected him to return the favor.

He saw that she had a position understood him better than any other student at Hogwarts, perhaps more than even any teacher. She saw through his façade of constant bitterness and tyranny in class; she could count herself among those who realized he only followed a quotation by that Muggle Shakespeare: "I must be cruel only to be kind". She knew his suffering, and probably shared some of his past ordeals.

Nevertheless, though, in the conclusion of her 6th year, she had reached the point where few would doubt she could change. She had already found her personal identity, and did not need it remodeled. No matter what influence he had on her, she would not divide from the path of the good, as Severus fretfully regretted doing, and she probably would follow it longer and closer than most people.

She wanted to find strength in a man she respected, and, by Merlin, Severus swore he should give it her. He had made a gigantic leap tonight, in that, by simply embracing the girl in her distress. Taking that into consideration, the road before him seemed a lot less daunting, and a great deal more beneficial to even himself. Maybe this could help him, as well as Luna.

"Be kind to unkind people - they need it the most," Ashleigh Brilliant has facetiously written in the Muggle past. Thank Merlin for Luna's realization of this truth, for perhaps her commiseration and trust in Snape would affect his future!

…………………………

"This is madness," decided Severus, realizing that he had stood outside of his room for a full half hour. Taking another selection from Shakespeare, he murmured to himself: "Now, to sleep . . . to sleep, perchance, to dream . . ."

He fervently hoped he did _not _dream of Xenophilius Lovegood having a sexual relationship with Professor Zangteno . . . or, worse, with the living Severus Snape . . .

Shaking the thought from his mind, the Potions master floated through a locked door into the bedchamber he had inhabited for the better part of twenty years.

The dust had collected with the room's disuse, naturally. Slughorn would not dare use the room of such a vile man, though only his previous student. No one had the opportunity to habit the establishment since him.

Yet, a set of footprints had recently marked the floor, Severus noted with some interest. He liked this enhanced night vision that came as a perk to this whole ghost thing. But, who had gained admittance through the door, undoubtedly locked by Filch or Minerva, at some point? Who had dared to trespass into the darkest cells of the dungeons, the deepest suite in the castle? What ignorant pundit had the nerve to take respite in _his _chambers? (Though, admittedly, he had not even tread in here for the past two years.) Still, what quarry had the miserable creature chased into his rooms? Examining the footprints, Severus determined that at least two or three people had come in: a woman, and one or two men. Based on the stride of their steps, they did not seem in a hurry, but such Sherlockian ways of induction did have an obsolete ring to them. Perhaps, he hazarded, they sought only to find a hiding place? For the prints all led one way, into his bedroom.

The Professors' suites at Hogwarts never had the most trendy of apparel, nor the most commodious number of rooms. (Each had, unfailingly, one den/sitting room, one small bathroom, and one large bedroom.) They did, however, make good use of the space ordained, and every chamber felt large and spacious. This aspect Snape found infinitely important, for, with the lack of windows in the dungeons, Severus otherwise would have found dwelling there nauseatingly claustrophobic. Probably every other potions master who had ever spent time there also would have felt too fettered and trapped. A convenient thing to know, the enlargement charm.

Severus, rather uneasy to meet his unexpected guests, floated with moderate caution to the doorway of his bedroom. Someone had left the door slightly ajar, and Severus heard a soft, feminine voice.

"Look, the boy has fallen asleep. Someone _did _do a good number on his nose; blood crusts his nostrils like flames! Let me borrow your kerchief again."

It did not take more than three words for Snape to determine that Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy lay somewhere within his old bedroom, and, assumedly, Draco near her.

"I'm not taking it back, this time."

Lucius too, then. Severus gasped inadvertently: he could have sworn earlier that day to touching Lucius' disembodied head. But, perhaps, he had erred in his surmise; the face he saw had got a lot of dirt and blood over it, after all. Unless, like him, Lucius had not boarded the train at King's Cross . . .

"You callous fool."

Lucius made no comment in reply to his wife's glaring anger.

"I'm sorry, Lucius, dear. We can't fight now, you were wise not to answer me just now," Narcissa sighed, her voice losing its edge.

"You're right." Lucius' voice seemed desultory, far away, deep with introspection . . .

Snape decided that now, if ever, he had the golden opportunity to barge into the conversation. With any luck, Lucius would remain relatively silent, and Narcissa would easily reconcile with him if ever she said anything uncivil--the easiest way to catch both Malfoys.

"Lucius. Narcissa."

Gently, like the ghostliest of ghosts, he drifted through the half-open door into the light of two wands—not upraised in anger, just for the benefit of their caster's sight. His intention to catch both adults by surprise worked.

"Snape! What are you . . . what happened to you?" Narcissa, though startled, managed to hide her shock at his appearance and instead looked flabbergasted at his ghostly state.

Severus raised one hand towards the ceiling in mock submission. "I died," he stated simply. "Nagini's mark remains in my neck."

Both conscious Malfoys stared, horrified, at his bloody collar, and they nodded silently. Draco, as Snape had suspected, lay draped across the divan, fast asleep.

"He fought hard," Severus said, unsure of his words' truth, but hoping they told no lies. In either case, they should suffice to stifle any nastiness on Narcissa's part.

"I think he did," Narcissa replied. Her hand hovered over her son's left ear, then drew away to resist the temptation of stroking the child's beautiful blonde locks.

"So," Snape began a question, floating to the bed and admiring Draco's limp form as it breathed softly under the dusty coverlet. "So, why are you three still here? And, though I do not mind your presence at all, how do you come to be in my old chambers?"

"We did not know you still existed here on earth, or we should not have come," Narcissa began defensively.

"Again, Narcissa, you are all welcome. I would not throw you out for no reason."

"You have plenty of reason, I take it." Lucius' voice spoke bitterly, that of a broken man. "We know, from Potter's words in the last battle, that you were Dumbledore's man through and through."

"Only from the time Lily Evans was murdered," Snape protested, though he did not know why he tried.

Lucius rose, his eyes burning with a coldness Severus had never seen, in all his years of affiliation with the death eater. They shone with the distance and unhappiness of the moon, frosted over with stars and made murky by clouds. His pupils dissolved into nothingness, and his wand light shone eerily below his face. This latter cast the most disturbing shadows and curves over his countenance, making Lucius' appearance of betrayal and desolation more pronounced. Well, Snape decided with an internal shudder, Lucius looked certainly more dead at this moment than even _he _did.

"You said you were a friend to me and Narcissa. You claimed to love Draco. You knew us more intimately than any other man in the whole of the wizard world. And, the whole time, you were a spy, a liar, a man only out for his own devices, never caring what happened to those he knew in the circle of the dark lord. Never caring what happened to us, who thought you to be on our side, who cared about you! We trusted you, 'Cissa and I. We all trusted you, in our circle. With the exception of Bellatrix, and she was sadly right the whole time! We should have listened to her!" He lunged forward, casting an unforgivable at Severus. Of course, it passed straight through him, causing considerable havoc on the leg of the wardrobe.

Snape pretended that had not happened, accepting Lucius' anger as natural and completely appropriate. "You are perfectly justified in hating me," he declared venomously, "And I officially give my permission for you to continue brewing it in the very depths of your soul for as long as you live . . . or longer!"

His face contorted to a snarl, though it felt uncomfortable after a whole day of forgetting the action. "I did my duty, nothing more. I betrayed you, yes. I lied to you, yes. I did these obscenities with a whole and complete conscious thought, yes. But what do you expect me to say, now, when it is all over? You were in the wrong. I changed, almost too late, to the right. You can't say you did not have a choice yourself."

Here Severus inhaled deeply, realizing that he still clasped two bottles of the Brew in his hand. He had retained them in the same position since departing Hagrid's Hut. Carelessly, he placed them on the dresser, resuming his rant.

"But, overall, I am not sorry for doing what I did. Though I feel, of course, a pang and regret for having hurt you and your family, Lucius, I feel no pity. You could have led such a different life, you might have shared my trials. And, you know," he went on, his anger surging, "You say now you were my friend. Did you really think so? You treated me more like a servant until I had virtually found myself in the dark lord's front pocket. Then you at least treated me like a man." He inhaled once more, then turned to Narcissa, leaving Lucius rather dazed.

"Narcissa, though, I will have you know that I actually died for your son. Unless, of course, you missed the revelations made by Potter. The Dark Lord killed me for the Elder Wand, when your son was the actual possessor."

This thought made Narcissa's face run pale.

"If the Dark Lord had not made this mistake, I should be alive right now, and your son should not." The idea rather disgruntled Severus as much as it did his parents. Both the Malfoys remained silent.

A stifled sob erupted from the other side of the bed. Draco's head raised, covered with tears.

"Professor, I should have listened to you. I should not have tried to kill Dumbledore on my own."

No one said a word.

"Why don't you yell at me? Fuck you, scream at me or something! I did you wrong! I as good as killed you! Why don't you fucking say something?"

"First, I would say, keep a more civil tongue when your mother is in the room," Severus chastised mildly. "I'll even not hesitate to take points from Slytherin, if you wish it. But it won't change matters, will it?" His tone remained even and cool, emptied of anger. It gave him an ecclesiastic feeling to give the young Malfoy exactly what the child did not want to receive: forgiveness.

"Even if I were to yell at you, (trust me, I know how to better than yourself).and even if I were to create punishments and carry them out on you, would it mend the situation? Not a bit. There's no point in making regrets for things that happened a year ago . . . for it was a year ago that we killed Albus, was it not?" Severus pondered this. "Merlin. Well, all I can say is that I know you never meant me ill. You never wanted me dead."

"Oh, but I did, last year!" cried Draco pitifully. "I wanted to stab you, to hex you, to kill you!"

"But you did not!" exclaimed Severus, advancing on Draco. He knew that if he lived this moment, his pulse should rise at an extraordinary rate. "You did _not _succumb to the temptation! You did not kill me, except by accident! And, by Jove, it was not your fault! You did only what task was set before you by higher and more powerful men! I would probably have ended up dead anyways, for one reason or another! There's no point in playing games of 'what ifs'! You must get over this and live your life while you have it! Death comes to all of us, and if it came just a bit expedient thanks to your doings inadvertently, what of it? A few ghastly decades cut off my life span is not so much. I'm still here, see?" Here Severus smiled, ruefully. He wondered why he felt that he meant every word he had said so far in this dialogue.

"I'm still here, and that would not have been changed had you been the perpetrator of my death, or anyone else! Do not grudge yourself my life, for you actually, I believe, did me a great favor."

Somewhat exhausted by all this, Severus seated himself on the bed next to Draco. The boy's sobs racked his frail, youthful body, and Snape's heart went out to him.

"That is all I have to say," Severus decided, and placed his hand over Draco's shoulder. With swimming emotions, he felt his body begin to slowly solidize with love for the poor misguided young man. "Be comforted."

He then looked to Lucius and Narcissa. The parents of the boy he cradled could not exactly tell how he had changed, in the relative dark of the room. Also, Draco seemed to take it in his stride, so no one made a comment.

Lucius Malfoy then gave a short laugh. "Well! Some comforts he'll be having. Living on the street, residing in the most beautiful cardboard box money can't buy!"

"Sh! Lucius! You needn't involve . . ."

" . . . It'll be a public secret in no time, Narcissa. We're as good as done."

"What do you mean, Malfoy?" questioned Severus, who still had not let go of Draco.

Lucius' frigid laugh disrupted the hushed ambiance of the room, like a metal pot falling upon the floor of a house abandoned for thirty years.

"With the Dark Lord dead, we're bankrupt. He'd been lending great sums of my money for various purposes, and now we've got virtually nothing left except that musty old manor house, and our country estate." The miserable father of Draco looked as though he wanted to follow his son's lead and begin to bawl.

Snape felt inexpressible emotions. "Who would have thought that, in the end, the old potions master would end up better off than the Malfoy millionaires?"

Saying such, he strode to the dresser and opened a drawer. Soon Severus withdrew a large bag of galleons: the contents of his entire Gringott's account, all withdrawn the day he had killed Dumbledore. He had ended up not needing his lifetime savings, and had in fact departed and lived a year without them. Now, though, he saw a chance to do something with all of it.

"Here," he demanded, placing the thick leather bag in Lucius' astonished hand, "Sell your manor and estate, live off of this until you receive the whole of your payment for them. Then get yourselves a decent, inexpensive London flat, and you can start work somewhere. Like any other, _normal_ man." Severus' words definitely had an edge, and he did not find himself surprised when Lucius began to protest.

"I can't do that."

"Why the hell not? Ninety-five percent of England either works currently or lives off retirement pension. So few have an inheritance of the size that enables them to cease slaving away at their desks . . ."

"No, Severus, you forget one crucial fact." Snape stared into Lucius' gray eyes, but suddenly realized what the fallen man meant. "I am a widely recognized death eater. My son is a death eater, also. My wife, though not branded, will probably share our fate, be what it may. We cannot surface in society again without risking our necks."

"Oh. So that's why you're sitting in here now, hiding in the chambers of a dead man. Wonderful!" Severus found himself greatly amused. "So take your galleons and get out of the country, for crying out loud! And go the Muggle way, through Heathrow, before they send out your photograph to the customs."

"Where should we go?" queried Narcissa, a tremor in her voice.

"Anywhere out of Europe, I should think. The Americas might be easiest. I don't think you should immigrate into the states, their police are world-known, but probably south of the border would work well. They don't have strong law enforcement down there, I hear."

Narcissa shuddered, then stood. "You have no better ideas?"

"Unfortunately, no. The situation is a simple one: you may elect to go, or you can stay to die."

"Nothing more sophisticated than that?" queried Lucius, standing alongside his wife.

"Not that I can think of, no."

Narcissa put a kerchief to stifle a sob, and walked out the door.

"Thank you for nothing, you double-faced bastard," Lucius cursed through clenched teeth, quite unaware that Ron Weasley had called his son exactly that less than a day ago. Then, he swept out of the room. 

Severus turned to look at Draco one last time, but instead of seeing him, felt a brief hug around his waist from behind, heard a whispered "I'm sorry . . ." and the gentle closing of a door. Moments later, as Severus still stood, he heard the outer door bang loudly, and all went silent.

"Merlin," Snape decided, "I need a drink."

Two bottles of Brew later, he pulled back the covers of his bed and slipped beneath them. Draco's warmth had permeated down to even the sheets, and Severus' transparent ghostly toes felt very cozy indeed.

Minutes after he closed his eyes, he fell quite asleep.

_…………………. _

_Hope you liked this chapter! 9th coming tomorrow, I expect! _


	9. 38 Year Old Virgin

_Hey! You! I did an illustration of Chapter 7, with Snape and Luna, in watercolor! Ya wanna see it? Then copy this link into your browser! _

_h t t p / x x b l a c k s a k u r a x x . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / a r t / S n a p e - a n d -L u n a - C h - 7 - I l l - 6 3 1 2 2 5 9 3_

_It may or may not work until you delete the spaces from between the letters.  
_

_Now enjoy the next chapter! _

**Chapter 9 **

Severus awoke readily after sleeping more soundly than he had in years. Either this happened because of the Brew, or out of relief that the Malfoys would now take a hasty departure from his life. He could not tell.

No matter; he still found opening his eyes after a thorough, dreamless slumber a very peaceful business indeed. A soft chuckling as he rose from the covers startled him, and Severus languidly turned to see the Bloody Baron. He reclined in the chair occupied not too long ago by Lucius Malfoy. Before him, precariously on a pile of dusty books, perched a heavily loaded tea tray.

"Sleep well?" mused the Baron, looking like a schoolteacher who had caught his most impish students playing strip poker in the woodshed during recess. Or, more accurately, he somewhat resembled dear Severus whenever the latter caught Harry Potter out of line.

"Indefinitely," Severus heartily replied. His stomach growled, and he covertly eyed the tea tray. Liverwurst sandwiches (his favorite!), chocolate éclairs, and celery sticks lined the plates, but each delectable item shone like a pearl, and had only the faintest hint of color.

"So," he added to himself, "This is what ghosts eat." Strangely, he felt ravenous, as though he had not eaten in a month! Granted, he had not had any semblance of a meal since the day he died, but still, he usually could curb his appetite for a week and not feel the worse for it.

"Only you, Severus would rise from a week's worth of sleep, then in only his first word cram five whole syllables." Not seeing Snape's eyebrow raise in astonishment, the Baron went on to say, "Now I'll advise you to drink more cautiously, next time." He held the two empty bottles that had once contained a decent quantity of the Brew in each.

"It's been . . . I'm sorry, I must have misheard, I thought you said I've slept for a week." Severus rubbed his right eye wearily, grimacing at the bits of crust that fell onto his fingers.

"That you did. No one had seen you since Hagrid and yourself returned from Hogsmede. So, I took it upon myself to find you. It was not hard; I figured you would come to your old quarters automatically. I had to burn some frankincense to stimulate your senses, however. You had, I think a bit too much."

Severus looked to a side table, the only one in the room, to see a large brass cauldron where the pungent odor of the spice smoked gently. "That being the only remedy to sober up after the Brew?"

"When you've had one too many, yes. Not necessary after a bottle or so, however."

Severus lay down on the bed. He felt very calm and collected right now, and did not want to rile himself. However, paired with his relative contentment, he also hungered, so he stepped to the tray and helped himself.

"I slept for a full week, then?" Snape asked again, his shock now turned to bemusement.

"Yes, ask anyone if you do not believe me!"

"I believe you." He bit into a sandwich, leaning against the corner pole of his four-poster. "But Merlin! Would I have kept at it if you had not woken me?"

"Most definitely. Maybe forever."

"Merlin." Severus swallowed the sour bread and meat in his mouth. "That's rather like a Grimm's Brother tale, like Rip Van Winkle or whatnot."

"Grimm's Brother?" The Baron coughed. "I don't know about _him_, but I did know dear old Rip in my day. Not a particularly great wizard, and rather a fool, but, of course, one does not like to slander the dead." The Baron gave a false, high laugh. "I think he might have actually drunk the brew, but he always said it was goblins that did it. But he did not know Percival Sully by sight, so I assume _he _played that nasty trick . . ."

Rather startled that his reference to a Muggle fairy tale (which his father had _insisted_ he read from every night, so he could see what 'normal' magic was.), Severus waited until the Baron ceased to ramble about Rip Van Winkle, then stated:

"I probably _did _need all that, though, considering I barely got any rest all last year. Both from my constant work and the insomnia my habits induced," he sighed wistfully.

"Have another sandwich," said the Baron, clicking his tongue in sympathy.

…………………….

Once their hunger subsided, and Severus felt more stuffed than a Christmas goose, he decided to pump the Baron for much-needed information on a certain situation.

"Have you ever," began Snape in a lull of the conversation, "Felt suddenly warm, then turned solid in an instant? All unexpected?"

In reply, the Bloody Baron's eyes grew wide, and seemed to observe Snape carefully.

"Such as . . . when was this?"

"Well," (Severus desperately did not want his friend to take his words the wrong way!) "Luna Lovegood kissed me, here." He touched his own sallow cheek delicately. The Baron stared at Severus in apparent disbelief.

"What?" demanded Snape hotly, "She asked me to help her manage her silly little magazine, and I agreed. There's nothing scandalous about that!"

"No, no, I never said I thought so," agreed the Baron reflectively. "But explain this 'solid' sensation you experienced. Was it . . . was it as though a portion of yourself had become real flesh again?"

"I would say so," nodded Snape in assent. "Pray though, tell me, what does that mean?"

"It means . . . you are a virgin."

The statement hung in the air, as though the Baron had chucked a grenade and thrown it. The Slytherin ghost held an air of quite detachment, as though expecting to hear the blow of its impact any moment. The explosion came, but not so loudly as he anticipated.

"So? Does that _matter_ to anyone but myself?" Severus' voice rang with suspicion that he never had lain upon the Baron before. The latter found himself taken aback.

"And how would you know that, anyway? I've never told anyone. _Anyone,_" he hissed, all good humor evaporated from his eyes and face.

"Well," commented the Baron rather penitently, "_Anyone_ familiar with the ghost world knows that if a ghost can become solid while giving or receiving gestures of affection, he or she has never engaged in sexual activities."

Severus gave him a suspicious look of admonition.

"But why virgins?" he demanded coldly, "Why me?"

"I do not know the exact reasons why such a phenomenon occurs," apologized the Baron, "But according to what people have said, your affliction is a sort of compensation for never having the chance to lose your virginity in real life. A most kind thought from him who dominions over us all," concluded the Baron, the essence of spite in his voice for the almighty entity that had created him. "But I swear it by my dead body; that is the only reason I know. I never learned occulmency or legilimancy," defended the Baron, turning away from Snape's savagely dubious glare.

"So," Severus asked, deciding the time had come to turn the spotlight, "Does the Gray Lady suffer from this affliction? Do you, yourself?"

"No, and no." The Baron squirmed. "We—erm—had intercourse the day before I killed her. I—I don't know how much of this story you are familiar with, but I asked her to marry me, she refused, I angered because I had given her my chastity the day before under the impression that she loved me, and—I cease interest in relating any more," he decided with fretful finality. "The fact is, though, Severus, no one at Hogwarts here has what you have."

"Well!" Severus racked his brain. "The Fat Friar?"

"Before he became a friar, of course. And, for your information, his name is Paul."

"Binns?"

"A pretty young Arithmancy teacher who ended up running to live in Mongolia with a vampire."

"Myrtle?"

"Riddle violated her just before he slay her."

"Well!" Severus said again, digesting the information. He could not think of a single other ghost at Hogwarts who might have escaped life without sex.

The Baron gently broached. "I must apologize, the way I explained all this might have been a bit blunt."

"I can stand bluntness fine, thanks," Snape replied quietly, staring down . . . the Baron could not tell if it was at his feet or somewhere not so low . . .

"In that case, forgive me for saying this, but I'm a bit surprised."

"At me?"

"Yes. I should have thought, you of all people should have got your rod up a woman before, or even got it near another man's, at least."

"I never did." Severus' eyes had not moved. He continued to stare blankly downwards, as though suddenly quite depressed.

The Baron eased himself up in the chair. "Did you ever want to?"

"You would have thought I roughhoused with a good many women in my time," Severus lamely began, as though forgetting the Baron's unanswered question. "Given my path in life, seedy appearance, and forceful personality? I always fancied I might have fit the mug of your typical pedophile, though I would not do such a thing to children." He sighed. "The reason I never _did _any romancing, though, or courting of any nature, was because I never wanted to end up like my father did." A weight, long on his mind, began to ease. Then, with the same effort he should have exerted in pulling a sword from his breast, he declared: "He abused my mother to no end, and even hurt my younger sister in the same ways before she had turned twelve!"

"Merlin!" exclaimed the Baron, nodding in sympathy.

Severus did not look at him. "I never could trust myself after seeing and knowing what he could do—to them—because I began to realize that I might end that way, too." Then his expression changed gently. "Lily . . . she was different, though. I could not have hurt her, ever, as long as I lived." Severus moodily let his head sink to meet his chest. "Though now, in death, maybe I could."

The Baron leant forward. "Was she the reason," he asked softly, "That you refused to get on the train?"

"The train leading ultimately to eternal paradise, correct?"

"Some see it as such, yes." The Baron calculated Severus, trying to make out what he could of the younger ghost's emotions.

"She was the reason I began to . . . to cry," Snape admitted slowly, lachymorose, with an absence of all passion.

The Baron nodded, settling back into the chair.

"The great entity above is fond of such tricks."

The ghosts sat in silent contemplation for a long while.

………………………..

Later, the Baron departed for whatever business a ghost like him would have, and Severus went to see McGonagall. On the way to the headmistress' office, he noticed with smug satisfaction that the houselves had turned the castle back to normal again. The ruined marble columns and balustrades had become whole again. The suits of armor had found their way back to their respective niches. Even the stern Gargoyle at the base of the headmistress' stairs had its ears placed back on its head, if a little crooked. Severus had no need to give a password, but nevertheless presented one as a courtesy to the stone creature. He found it hard to believe that McGonagall had not changed the last one he had set: _abandonment_.

"Strangely appropriate word, that," he muttered as the great stone doors opened, and he floated into the office. "Representative of my abandonment of life, enemies, and misery." Few people would connect the first vice to the others, however!

"Severus!" McGonagall slid her glasses further up her nose to look at him.

"Yes, Minerva, it is I—but I'm nothing to gawk at, I assure you."

"Sit." She gestured to a chair before her and stared intently at him until he safely descended to seat himself in it.

"We were worried, Severus," she explained fiercely. "We thought you had left."

"Without giving a word of goodbye to those who watched over me for years? No indeed, Minerva, I am not nearly so ungrateful as that." A hint of sarcasm tinged his voice slightly, but he meant what he said.

"You have nothing to be grateful to me for," Minerva demanded. "But, since you have resurfaced from wherever you were-"

"-My dungeons, my natural habitat,-" Snape mercilessly interrupted.

"-Let us get on to business," finished McGonagall.

The sprinting conversation paused for a breath.

"What business?"

"Your employment, Severus, your _employment_."

Severus bowed his head. "Of course. But surely that cannot be too complicated? You have all the records of what I've done with myself for the past twenty years, you personally know me rather well, and I'm vouched for by the most able wizard of this century. What do you require to know?"

"Severus, did you die with your wand in your hand?"

The question startled him. He frowned. "I might have."

Then he saw her point. "I cannot even teach potions without a wand," he stated, now knowing the vital importance of the situation.

"That is why I am asking if you died with your wand in your hand. If, when you died, it did not fall from your fingers, then the spirit of the wand also died, and you will have its spirit somewhere about you."

Severus, who had not thought to look for it since his death, slipped his hand up his sleeve, to draw from his secret pocket . . . the ghostly vision of his dead wand.

"Oh! That is indeed fortunate!" exclaimed McGonagall eagerly. "There will be no other trouble, then."

"No indeed." Severus paused. "How is it that you know about this rule?"

"The wand-in-hand law? Established 1859 by the Minister at that time, Gannon Tressidair. When Binns died, we had to check and see if it applied to him. But he died in his sleep without it, so it never mattered. Not that he needs his wand for class, at any rate." Minerva positively beamed at Severus, and the latter felt that by it, she meant dismissal.

"I'm sorry for disappearing so long; I had a very long drowse," Severus apologized, rising from the chair.

"No matter, I'm sure you deserved that, at very least."

She suddenly remembered something, and put up her hand. "Wait, I have some letters for you." McGonagall began to dig in her files until she surfaced with three large envelopes. "Came at different times, each one. I learned you were not rooming in Eden, so I did not know what else to do with them but keep them."

"Thanks."

Severus gave a curt nod, then left Minerva without the satisfaction of knowing who they came from, or what they consisted of . . . though Snape thought he knew very well already.

…………….

His suspicions proved confirmed when, in the safety of his desk in the dungeons, he opened the first envelope and drew out rough drafts of various articles for the Quibbler. The enclosed letter read:

_Dear Professor Snape: _

(Oh dear, he must remember to tell her to call him just Snape, except in classes.)

_Here are a few articles from our correspondents in Brazil, China, and Bengal. Please look through them, catch any mistakes I missed. Then send them back ASAP. If you want to discuss anything, anything at all, you can floo me anytime. I'll be around. _

_Love, _

_Luna Lovegood _

She wrote 'Love?' Severus smiled, but stopped when he felt his face begin to solidify. When had last anyone written him and said 'love, whomever'? No one, not for a very, very long time. The pang struck him severely, and he had to switch from his firm, hard-backed work chair to his squashy couch for comfort's sake.

Then he went to the second envelope.

_Dear Professor Snape: _

_I have more articles to correct. Take a special look at the one by our journalist in Canada, right now. It's about some new potions laws that are going into effect over there. Oh, by the way, do you mind doing the 'From the Editor' for the beginning of the publication? I guess you just discuss your favorite articles, and respond to a few letters. You probably will want a pseudonym for that, though, so think of one quickly. Again, if you want to talk, floo me anytime. _

_Love, _

_Luna Lovegood _

Severus had to laugh. A pseudonym? This would require some reflection. It would be easiest, undoubtedly, to just steal a first and second name from two figures in history or literature. Diogenes, one of the earliest Cynics in history, instantly came to mind. Severus had always considered the man his own favorite hero. Then, with a flash of inspiration, Sydney Carton, a character from that Muggle Charles Dickens' writing _Tale of Two Cities _floated into his memory. Carton had, like Severus, loved a certain girl for a very long time, though his love remained unrequited. But Carton, though shrewd of character, did not strike Severus as a very fitting figure for Diogenes . Perhaps Cyrano de Bergerac, the highly intelligent swordsman, wizard, and poet from France. Yes, Diogenes Cyrano sounded quite nice indeed. He would write back Luna and tell her his choice when he had finished reading the contents of the last letter.

They ran as follows:

_Dear Professor Snape: _

_Are you all right? You have not written me back yet, and it has been days since I last wrote you. If you no longer wish to be a part of the Quibbler, you only have to say the word. I smelt the Brew on your breath the night you agreed to help me, so if you merely acquiesced under the effects of said drink, go ahead and tell me, I shall not be angry. _

_In any case, we had to print the coversheets today due to a technical difficulty, so we already chose a pen name for you: Erik Holmes. After the two geniuses of literature that I think you have a lot in common with. Erik for the Phantom of the Opera, who was practically as magical as a Muggle can get, an expert with a Punjab lasso, master architect, a divine singer, an ardent composer of music, and oh so much more. Then Holmes, obviously, for the greatest detective the world has ever known, fictional or real. I'm sorry if you disapprove of the choices, but, at least for this issue, I can't change them. But I think, if you read up on them, you might find them having a lot in common with you. _

_Again, floo me anytime. _

_Lots of love, _

_Luna Lovegood _

Erik Holmes? Ah well. It was a good, solid name. He did not mind it. And he actually knew quite a lot about both Sherlock Holmes and the infamous Phantom—after all, his father had forced him to read a _lot _of Muggle literature in his youth. Poor man! Severus saw now that the devil only wanted a normal, Muggle family. Not his fault, at all.

Luna thought he had traits in common with the Phantom and Holmes, eh? Rather large names to live up to; he only hoped he could fill the shoes of the great men . . . ones he revered well enough, but had never thought to commiserate with. Luna never ceased to surprise him.

He set to eager work at editing the articles and composing a brief epistle explaining his renitence to reply.

_My dear Miss Lovegood: _

_First, I would prefer if you called me either 'Snape' or 'Severus' in our communications beyond class, for, after all, in this endeavor, we are colleagues. There is no reason to retain such an inflexible formality. I hope, in return, you will allow me to address you as Luna, similarly. If not, I easily understand your apprehensions. _

_Second, I must apologize for my not writing back promptly. I indeed, as you observed, had partaken of rather too much Brew that night. I afterwards fell into a deep sleep that only frankincense could stir me from, so that was the reason I did not even read your letters until today. I am greatly sorry and do not intend to be so foolish again. _

_Third, Erik Holmes suits me fine. I'm not wonderful at imagining names from the air; all I could think of was something along the lines of Diogenes Cyrano. Diogenes from an ancient Greek man who founded the school of thought of Cynicism, I believe. Cyrano from a long-dead French poet rather like our lamentable Erik, but from a different time period. Out of curiosity, why do you read the Muggle classics? I was forced to, in my youth, so why do you? _

_I'll floo you sometime this week, although I'm not sure, in my current state, if it will work for me. It may. _

_One last item of less business nature: I know why, now, that odd occurrence happened the other night. You know what I mean. I don't think there's any way to change it, but I'd prefer to talk about this in person. It's rather awkward to write. _

Then Severus found himself stuck at a closing. He could not bring himself to write 'love.' His quill refused. Yet, he wanted to write something more than his standard 'sincerely.' In the end, he settled for:

_Ardently, _

And, of course, finished with

_Severus Snape_.

…………………..

Severus corrected each of the articles Luna had sent with zeal and great attention. Finally, when he had gone through them all, he went to the owlry to send it off to Luna. Just by the sheerest chance, as he searched for twine to reinforce the common school owl's grasp on the rather heavy envelope, another owl swooped inside. It stopped in midair when it saw Snape, and promptly fell to the ground at his feet.

Severus picked the owl up and stroked it. He did not often see _Daily Prophet _owls, but he recognized this one. When Rita Skeeter had asked virtually every teacher in Hogwarts (through letter) what they knew about Albus Dumbledore, searching for information for her novel, this particular owl had a field day. Perhaps the odious reporter had a particular liking for this owl, for the letter's reply address had her same, spiked capitals and loopy l's.

Imagine Snape's shock when the letter's sending address consisted of:

_Severus Snape, Hogwarts Ghost, Hogwarts _

Half considering that this might preface another barrage of letters from Skeeter for a book, Severus looked at the owl.

"You have more letters to send?" he queried, touching the soft head of the owl delicately. The owl shivered in reply.

When the owl did not jump off his shoulders to hurry for more letters from Skeeter, Severus decided to risk opening it.

_My dear Severus, _

_I would like very much if we could have a conference in a few days, perhaps over the weekend? For, you see, I am writing a rather extensive article on you, and I would like your input. It shall be pleasant, I assure you, and I intend to provide a bit of ghostly creampuffs you can enjoy, my baking. Please accept this invitation, and I'll meet you at Madam Puddifoot's at three this Saturday. _

_My condolences for having lost your life, I know it probably meant a lot to you. _

_Affably, _

_Rita Skeeter. _

Damn the woman. An article on _Severus Snape _from Skeeter's point of view? Oh Merlin. Help him.

He tore the letter from Rita in two, told her owl, "No reply," and sent Luna's letter sailing towards the dear girl.

………….

_I'm tired. Gah. Chapter 10 (maybe) tomorrow. Thanks for reading!_****


	10. Don't Keep Your Eggs In One Basket

_Enjoy! _

**Chapter 10 **

Severus did try to keep his word to Luna; really, he did. He experimented very much with the fire in his room, and even (when McGonagall had gone out) the one in the headmistress' office, but to no avail. He simply could not make it work. But that did not stop him from corresponding with her, however.

Two weeks had passed since Severus had written the letter concerning his pseudonym, and many more epistles had passed between him and Luna. The night, like many other summer evenings, had a sweltering tinge to it even though the sun had long slid from the face of the heavens. The stench of hot earth and sweating plants still found its way down to the dungeons, no matter their methods of avoiding the heat.

Severus' mantel clock ticked noisily, and the potions master found himself comforted by the sound. The fire did burn, however, for Severus found it cheery and pleasant. He could not feel heat or cold, as a mortal did. So, with this advantage, he did not consider the temperature of his room at all, and instead went on perusing an article on prescribed potions, editing it for the Quibbler with a thick-ended red-ink correction quill.

All of a sudden, a flash of light came from his fireplace, and, coughing, Luna appeared.

"You may, for my comfort, wish to extinguish the fire," she murmured, drawing a dripping lock from her brow. Indeed, she must have reeked with sweat, but Severus could not smell her with his affliction.

"Fine," he replied, and threw a lazy _Aquamenti_ at the blazing logs.

"So," he questioned with this task done, "This is a surprise. A special occasion?"

"Not especially," Luna replied, shaking her head candidly. "I just brought you a selection of letters for you to reply to in the editor's column. I think I need it by tomorrow, if you can make it."

"Of course," replied Severus, taking the envelopes she proffered. "All of these?"

"No, no, just choose the more interesting ones. About four or five, depending how long you make the responses. Something about one hundred to one hundred and fifty words each one."

Snape nodded, but sensed that this was not the only reason she had flooed. "That will be easily done; I'll get them to you tomorrow, no fail." He paused. "Care for some coffee? Butterbeer?"

"I'd not mind some butterbeer, if you have it on hand." Luna took his offer as an invitation to sit, and settled on the edge of Snape's bed.

"I don't normally have human visitors, but Winky shall fetch some." Saying so, he clapped twice, and the little houself appeared.

Winky had fared wonderfully since the end of the war. Without worry of punishment, she had began to work in earnest in caring for the castle and cooking. She missed Dobby terribly, though, and made no attempt to mask her grief.

"What does Master Severus wish?"

"A bottle of butterbeer and a glass for Miss Lovegood, quickly now."

"Master Severus allow it, may Winky take a second bottle to smash in remembrance of Winky's dear Dobby? Winky never got to say goodbye to her friend."

Severus frowned, but Luna consoled the little houself. "Of course you may, Winky. You should have someone show you his grave, sometime, if you like. I would, if you let me."

Winky clasped both her hands together and wrung them. "Miss Lovegood is very kind, but I do not know that Headmistress McGonagall would approve Winky's missing work to pay her respects at the grave of beloved Dobby."

"If it'll make you stop this damned bottle-smashing business, then I personally give my permission for you to go, Winky," grunted Severus in mild exasperation. "And you can tell McGonagall I let you, if she cares."

"Oh, thank you Master Severus!" Winky bowed over until her head nearly touched the floor. "I thank you so much! Now I shall fetch the butterbeer for Miss Luna, and a bottle for Dobby's rememberance!" With a snapping crack, Winky disappeared.

"If that will cure her zeal for smashing bottles," Severus spoke confidingly, "I'll be grateful. Last time she smashed one, I was nearby, and my eardrums pained me for hours afterwards."

"Sometimes they really want so little," replied Luna, smiling shyly. "But they don't always know _what_."

Snape had to admit that Luna had a point.

"By the way," ventured Luna, "You mentioned you knew what happened when you became partially whole again, and that you knew the cause."

Severus grimaced. "Yes, that I did say. It's not a topic for easy conversation, however."

"I did research on my own," Luna waved her hand dismissively. "I'm sorry."

"For being a resourceful young woman?" Snape snorted. "I think you should not be."

"No, I meant that I'm sorry you never . . . well . . . you know."

Something in her voice disturbed Severus. He felt as though she implied more than she simply meant by 'well . . . you know.'

"I never had the desire to, anyhow." He said this too quickly, though. The look on her face which caused him some alarm had not left.

This tense moment momentarily lifted as Winky appeared sporting two bottles of cold butterbeer.

"Here Winky has something for Miss Luna," the houself squeaked, proffering the bottle. "Now Winky shall display her gratitude and smash her bottle for Dobby here and now!"

"No, no, do it in the garden, Winky," demanded Severus, "We're trying to have a conversation, I beg of you."

Somewhat dejected, Winky nodded, "Your word is Winky's command, Master Severus."

"Some other time," comforted Luna entreatingly.

Her wizened little face brightening slightly, Winky bowed deeply and disappeared.

The ghost and the mortal faced each other, unsure of how to begin again.

"Luna, to steal an over-used phrase, are you all right? I sense that something is troubling you." Seveus had broken the silence abruptly, as though with a sledgehammer. Luna stared at her potions master, her long eyelashes blinking slowly.

"I . . . I don't think that . . ." Her voice broke off, a brief tremor inflicting it. Snape felt even more troubled at her indecision. Luna Lovegood never doubted herself or anything else; the girl always brimmed with a certain quiet self-confidence. Most people never noticed it, and Severus often had overlooked it himself in the past, but his subconscious had always observed it. Now his conscious applied the information slowly gathered by his subconscious, and Snape worried. He should have talked to her sooner than this, he had let her wallow in grief and misery without allay for three whole weeks . . . and he doubted that anyone else would bother to comfort the distraught daughter of an eccentric wheezebag like Xenophilius . . .

Then, from depths of uncertainty, the decisive and positive Luna Lovegood emerged once more.

"I actually do think you would understand. Your parents are both dead."

Severus started with surprise. She knew a lot, this one, though how he could not comprehend. "I was not aware this was common fact," he smiled grimly. "But yes, that is true. My father died of alcohol poisoning. Afterwards, my mother became convinced that _she_ had killed him, and became so firmly set about it that I found it necessary to send her to a mental facility. But that was only when she threatened to kill herself as penance for her 'sin'. She died there of pneumonia."

He figured that opening up to Luna, sharing his own past unprovoked, would help her reveal her own feelings to him.

"Did you love them, either of them?"

Severus paused. What should he tell her? Of his parents, only his mother had ever shown any sort of affection for him. His Muggle father hated him from the moment Severus made his television blow to pieces, the infant wizard fed up with watching cheap Muggle kids' entertainment. Severus, though, could not truthfully say he cared much for either of his parents. Yet, he knew quite well the relationship between Luna and her father, and it probably would console her more if she thought he cared very deeply for at least _one_ of his parental units. In the end, though, he opted for the truth—after so many lies after so many years, he decided he deserved to give someone the whole story.

"I did not truthfully love anyone in my youth," he began cautiously, savoring the sensation of honesty and not wanting to blemish it with an unintentional falsehood. "Except, of course, her of whom you know."

Luna nodded. Of course, she knew he meant Lily Evans.

"I had good reason not to attach myself to my parents, generally. My father compulsively drank almost daily after work, work of the lowest gauge even for a Muggle. He worked on people's plumbing." The words came from his mouth with a direct sense of distaste.

"When he did not sit in front of the tube, guzzling beer to enhance his growing paunch, or had not skipped out to the local pub to waste half his day's earnings on liquor, he habitually screamed obscenities at his wife and myself for the sole purposes that we were not quite as lowly as himself." As Luna opened her mouth to protest, Severus put up a hand to assuage her.

"I speak merely from the perspective of him and my mother, not my own. Based on what people have told me, my mother knew herself to be superior to my father, and, I suppose, married him with the idea that he would forever be the subservient, obsequious lout she knew in her youth. But Tobias Snape got sly, in the end. He realized what my mother actually thought he was: simply a bloke to serve as a buttress to her high-headedness. He took drastic actions to reverse the position, or at least force her into more often love-making. As a result, they had me. My mother was never the same after that."

He looked to see Luna's reaction. The schoolgirl's eyes had not enlarged, as he had anticipated; in fact, she seemed to have had no reaction whatsoever.

"Go on, I know I look like I'm not listening, but I am."

Snape bit his lip to prevent some nasty retort from slipping out—he certainly had no intention of losing Luna's respect just now.

"My father got more and more violent and domineering over the years, and my mother became weaker and weaker. Nine years after my birth, they had Sylvia, who turned out to be a squib, sadly." He paused. "That marks the end of my mother's sanity, I believe. The shock and stress of a second delivery unnerved her too much. She never intended to have children, I think, and always treated my sister and I likewise. To her, we were sad mementos marking where she had submitted and succumbed to please the selfish cravings of her good-for-nothing husband. We were merely reminders that she had not gotten what she herself wanted in life—a sort of Peter Pettigrew figure, to praise her glory and raise her already inflated self-esteem."

He snorted with contempt. "She was destroyed by her own dependence on other people's opinions. When her husband chastised her, she took it to heart. She came to believe that every word any other person said was true, and never could place her faith in herself any more. In the end, she was too deep in self-pity to care for either Sylvia or myself, and so it never really affected either of us when the woman died. She had never been the motherly figure children need."

A stifled sob made his head turn to look at his student and co-worker. The two oceanic blue eyes swam in saline.

"At least Harry was so kind as to light a candle for you at the funeral," Luna gasped. "No one else did. That's how I knew you had no parents alive . . . if they existed, they could not have kept away from the service. It was advertised all over the news."

"There was a funeral?" Severus' attention piqued. "When?"

"It was a mass funeral for all the Order and Hogwarts students who died during the final battle. They even honored my father among them. It was when you were asleep last week, though, so that's why you never heard about it."

"Merlin." Snape grimaced. "I managed to botch that up too. The only thing I could have done as a ghost that I could not have above," (He gestured towards the general direction of eternal paradise) "And I miss it. My own funeral. I swear, I must be cursed." He paused. "So Potter lit a candle for me. That better be all he does for my _blessed _memory, or . . ."

Then he remembered Luna's tears.

"But you feel guilty for not lighting a candle yourself? Child, don't be foolish."

"I only thought of my father, not you. I suppose it just . . . did not occur to me, seeing as I'd only talked to you in person days before . . ."

"Well, don't bother regretting it!" Severus' nose wrinkled, as though someone had forced something very unpleasant beneath his nostrils. "I'd prefer if you thought of me as a living person as opposed to a deceased entity. _I _practically _feel_ alive, just with a few restrictions. Everyone treats me like a ghost right now, but I don't necessarily _enjoy_ that."

"That would definitely be easier for me," decided Luna optimistically.

"I'm not conceited enough to think that this issue is all that's been troubling you lately, though," Severus rather abruptly noted. "So let us go back to where we began."

"Yes," Luna replied. Her eyes seemed to glaze over again with that same inattentiveness that graced them when Severus had related about his mother. But, he realized, perhaps this half-stoned look signified when she listened and thought most deeply.

"I had about as different a childhood from you as any two people could possibly have," Luna began in easy prelude. "My parents loved each other, and they cared a great deal about me. When my mother died—it was a potions accident, before I had turned three—my father was heartbroken. It was all he could do to take care of me _and _continue work in the Quibbler. But as soon as I could walk, I learned to help my father in his work, and so generally became less of a hindrance." A tear slid down her cheek. "I admired him more than any person in the world. He taught me so much, and indulged my every whim. We would go on long hikes about the country, take picnics, and all the while he would inform me about every animal, plant, and person we encountered. There was nothing that he seemed not to know about. All the while, though, I knew half of what he told me was balderdash—books did not talk of the Crumplehorned Snorkback, or the poison buncilnella, or even of the stalpis rotundum. I suppose I had inherited my mother's sensibility, and her innate practicality. Nevertheless, I was endeared to the greater eccentricities of my father, to all intents and purposes believing what he said. Sometimes I gullibly found myself lapsing into his mindset, and for the longest time blamed gnargles for taking my assignments and books. Woe the day I learned he had first heard of them from Mundugus Fletcher, who created them up for an anecdote!"

Here, Luna began to laugh giddily, but soon found herself choked by sobs once more.

"He just couldn't see the difference between a hoax, a joke, and fact. My father simply stored away every fact he ever learned, and, I believe, he made up a lot of facts on his own. He always had an amazing imagination. Told the best bedtime stories, too."

She exhaled deeply. "I assume now that he's gone, I have no one else to pretend to anymore. I _don't _have to blame the gnargles, in other words. What scares me, though, is that everyone has identified me by what I talk about—which always has been fairly accurate representation of what my father talked about. I should have quit it at Hogwarts, at least, but I thought it would be amusing to watch people's reactions. I didn't know it would make potential friends dismiss me as 'Loony,' at the time, but I soon came to disregard the nickname. I was always my father's daughter, I'd tell myself, and I would always be so. But I never foresaw his death. With him collapsed the highly embellished world we had both dwelled within, and I had to face cold reality. I still haven't quite woken up to it, yet."

With a despondent movement, she leaned against one of the poles of the bed, wrapping her arms around it dreamily.

"I don't know what to do, Severus. I wish I knew what to do with myself. I never felt so uncertain in my life. I always have known what was to become of me; I was to complete school with flying colors, then help my father with our magazine until . . . oh, I never even took into consideration his death ever coming!" She gasped, and clutched the pole tightly.

"I know what you mean," Severus voiced, trying not to display the emotion he felt in his heart. The poor girl! She had built up a façade to oblige her father, and now it had come down upon her in a cascade of bruising bricks. Did he know anyone who had felt this way recently? Rather.

"And I am not sure what to do about the situation. It's definitely a difficult one." He knew that whatever he said now, she would hold in great store. The necessity for choosing the right words needled him. "One thing you must not let yourself do, though," Snape declared almost vehemently, "You must not despair too much. There is a grand, long life ahead of you." He raised his arm and raised it, as though the first steps she must take to embark on her new life lay before him on the floor. "You must be who you yourself are. Do not try to hide your . . . ahem . . . _lack _of eccentricity any more. Recall your strongest points, do not dwell on your weakest. And never put your eggs in one basket, ever." _Though she might be a bit late for that, at this point. Not that he could testify to the accuracy of the adage, either._

"I dropped my basket, already. The one with my father in it."

Severus smiled painfully, wondering if Luna knew legilimancy. "But so did I. With Lily. And now, I don't have any more chances. However, you can learn from your mistake, and my mistake. You can change your life and turn it around."

Luna nodded. "That, I can." But the way she said it did not sound as though she felt convinced of it.

Saying no more, she rose from the bed to walk towards the doused fire. The Ravenclaw never reached it. Instead, her hand flew to her eyes, and she collapsed on the floor in long restrained tears.

A cold pain filling his own heart, Severus slipped from his chair and seated himself next to her.

"You feel lost. I know it." He could sense the emotions she experienced, flying through her body at the speed of light. "As though someone had pulled a chair out from underneath you seconds before you had sat down. Anguish, desperation, and inconsolable despondency. The world had been at your feet, but now you lay prostrate before it, bludgeoned and badgered to breaking point. I know you have anger and a long for a slow revenge for the beasts that did the deed to your father, though you know not who actually dealt the fatal blow. You have indeterminable amounts of pain inside you, and no way to stop it."

Luna paused a moment between sobs to look at him.

"You know very well," she managed to say.

"But do not let these hold you back, Luna. Child, you have a great deal of potential. Use it to your best advantage."

She smiled through her tears. "That's the Slytherin in you talking."

Severus made no reply, and held her silently until she fell asleep in his arms. He eventually followed her lead.

………….

_Well! I originally intended this to be two-part chapter with Severus talking to Luna for one half, and the second a discussion with . . . someone. (Cough). I guess I'm saving the next bit for Chapter 11! Please rate and review! _


	11. Every 10th Deathday

_Enjoy! (Yeah, that's really all I have to say at this point. Except maybe restate my disclaimer . . . (points at first chapter) Ok, that's done. _

**Chapter 11 **

Over the next six weeks, Severus and Luna had many conferences similar to the one just observed. Luna normally did all the crying, though nearer the end of the summer even the snarky old potions master could admit to shedding a few tears. One could only describe their relationship as precious. Snape provided substantial support for the overwrought teenager, and she brought to him a fuller sense of completeness, a satisfying solution to his hunger for friendship. They supplemented each other very well, and their discussions soon delved into the deepest dregs of personality and character. She liked him for his maturity and intellectual wit, he liked her for her foresight and clear-headedness. Both marveled at how well Severus slid into the position of paternal guide, and how Luna got so in-tuned to his well-being like the best of daughters. But neither said anything on the subject; they mutually understood without words how strong their bonds had become over the course of the summer.

Yet, as much time as Snape spent with Luna, he did not completely devote his every hour to her. He would have considered that rather beyond unreasonable.

Instead, he spent a great deal of time talking with the teachers, other ghosts, and anyone else with whom he cared to speak. (This did _not _include Rita Skeeter, needless to say. He did not keep her invitation to meet her at Madame Puddifoot's. The ghostly cream-puffs she said she would bring probably contained a bit of veritaserum, anyways, and Severus did not feel anxious to see if the potion would work in his ghostly state.)

One such conversation _without Skeeter _took place with Professor Binns, in the garden. The sun had long set, and both ghosts had missed dinner at Eden, but neither seemed to care very much. The humid air, the felicitous drafts of cool wind that brought scents from the pines of the Forbidden Forest, and the potent stench of fresh manure would have sung a lullaby to their olfactory senses, if these latter had not ceased to work with death. In its stead, the gentle lolling of the trees as they rocked with the occasional breeze, the biting chirping of disgruntled crickets, and the whizzing of an occasional firefly or mosquito served to ease the pace of their thoughts and otherwise calm them. The violet sky began to deaden to a rich, almost sliceable blackness, and stars scuttled to their places at an ostensibly leisurely pace. Once in a while, one star would cease his regime of appearing nonchalant and instead would zoom embarrassedly off the stage, as though he had entered two acts early in the great celestial drama.

"I can see Jupiter. Maybe Uranus," Binns sighed, admiring the constellations donned in their dazzling arrays. The way he said those words sounded as though he discussed certain actors, poking their noses from behind the wing curtains to get a view of the action.

"I don't remember anything from my astronomy classes, really," Severus admitted. "Never interested me awfully. Why bother with what dwells up there when all that matters is down here?" His eyes nevertheless moved to gaze at Ursa Major and Ursa Minor as the bears pirouetted across the sky.

"I memorized enough to pass my O.W.Ls. and my N.E.W.T.s to my degree of satisfaction. Not that my results from either of those ever did me any good, in the end," he remonstrated bitterly. "I wish I had taken more practical classes. Something like . . . oh, I don't know . . . sewing."

Binns chuckled. Snape felt reminded of Dumbledore, vaguely, even though Binns had neither the voice, bearing, or magnetism of the great ex-headmaster. No, he decided, Binns just reminded him of Albus because they both had the same condescending, 'Oh, you foolish young soul' attitudes towards him. It irked; what did age have to do with experience?

The history teacher interrupted his pessimistic mental rant.

"You didn't like my history class, did you?"

Severus felt taken aback. He had never heard Binns ask anyone this; usually the ghost meandered on Cloud 9 all the time, after all.

"You stuck very close to the curriculum in the times most hard to do so," he ventured, not wanting to hurt the old ghost. "I always admired your persistence and memory for dates."

"But did you ever truthfully enjoy my class? Did you ever find it _interesting?_"

Severus swallowed, and prepared a non-committal answer.

"No, don't bother lying. I can see from your eyes, you don't want to tell me the truth. Not that I don't know it already." Binns collapsed into a heavy meditativeness. "Do you know what I always wanted?" he began quietly.

"I always wanted to teach history. It was the one subject in school that absolutely fascinated me. I knew from the minute I walked out of my first class, I wanted to learn my history better than anyone else ever could. And I did just that." Binns shook his head solemnly, Severus looking at him with unnoticed sympathy.

"It was only natural that Albus let me teach. He knew my passion for memorizing dates, figures, and names. I had planned my first class for years, written down every word I intended to say and composed a florid opening speech. But the great day came, and what happened? Some old fool from my house, two years behind me, threw a spitward at my face. Hit my glasses, certainly, but what he never realized was that it absolutely squanched my dreams, too."

Binns gazed with melancholy at a beetle that crawled on the iron armrest of the bench upon which he and Severus reclined.

"It did not take long for me to realize I was unappreciated as a teacher. Soon I began to not bother planning my lessons, and instead rambled about a subject I felt obligated to talk about. Then, when they tightened the curriculum, that gave me even less of a free reign. I could not manage to fit in everything the Ministry insisted my students learn without omitting my favorite discussion subjects. So that's what I did. Rather than teach the students something I thought they might actually enjoy, I sacrificed every smidgen of interest for what the Ministry required. That all before I died, too."

Not even Neville Longbottom could have mistaken the definite apathy and despondency in the old ghost's voice. Snape _wished _he had something useful to say, but, alas, he could think of nothing! Except, maybe, that quotation by the genius Muggle, Thomas Edison:

_"Many of life's failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up." _

How in hell Severus remembered that after so many years, he could not say. He could not even remember where he had read or heard it.

Nevertheless, he recited it to Binns, who smiled dismally. "You don't know what it is to live a life of failures," he grimaced. He did not look ready to face contradiction, and Severus did not feel particularly unsuccessful at the moment, so the potions master made no retort.

"Now, Severus, I want to tell you something you're probably unfamiliar with as of right now," Binns began, his 'I'm-older-than-you-and-therefore-wiser-than-you' attitude reaching its peak. "It may sound a bit strange, and it may alarm you when you realize the full scope of what I'm saying, but trust me, there is nothing you can do to change my decision."

He inhaled the thick summer air greedily, then closed his eyes.

"I suppose, when I died, I did not want to get on the train because I never had accomplished my goal, never had felt satisfied that my students had 'gotten' the passion of history. Even to the brightest stars in the school, ones such as yourself, Severus, I never felt as though they appreciated the passion I felt for the subject. I've noticed you trying to doze off in my class once or twice yourself, Severus. During your fourth or fifth year, I believe."

Damn, that ghost had a good memory. Severus recalled a time when he had not slept in a fortnight, after Lily as good as told him to stop trying to show friendly advances to her.

"_Only _once, sir." Though Severus could not strictly confirm that.

Binns shook his grizzled head with an affectionate chuckle, the kind an uncle might deliver when his nephew asked a stupid question or recited a suave joke he had told in his own youth.

"No matter, Severus, I do not blame you. By then, all the passion for the actual teaching had seeped out of my heart, and what little I had left went to Alice Whitewater. Foolish girl. She knew I wanted to marry her, but she ran away with that half-vampire man. Voivode something-or-another. No matter," he repeated, "Just the musings of an old man. Ghost." He gave a slight hiccup.

"In any case, since I refused to get on the train for such a simple reason, I suppose the great entity above had some pity on me, or something of that nature." Binns' brow furrowed, perplexed. "I can't think of any other reason for the phenomenon."

"What phenomenon?" Severus had to ask, he had a hard enough time keeping his place in the roundabout monologue.

"Why, the one that happens every ten years. See now," Binns waved his hand, as though he expected a diagram to show up from the sky, "Every ten years, on my deathday, I show up at King's Cross again. Just the same as every man in England does when he's died, or so I've heard. The strange thing though, is that I can't be dead. I'm already dead, and can't have died. I just stare at the train, stare at the platform of 112 and 14/365, stare at my feet. Then, after a good long while, it all disappears, and I'm back in my bed again."

"And when you find yourself in King's Cross, you are certain it is not a dream?" queried Snape, a cynical skeptic until the end.

"If I feel the steam on my face, hear the sound of the whistle blowing impatiently for me to board, and even _smell_ the coal in the air," Binns sadly commented, "I must not be dreaming."

Severus nodded. "You have told this to how many people?"

"No one. Just yourself."

Snape considered a moment, then gave a slight bow with his head. "I am honored that you trust me."

"Well, I suppose I just might kill two birds with one stone, so to say; inform you of one of the strangest things to happen to a ghost, prove there is still a chance beyond this life, and also to let you know why, come my next deathday, I will be gone."

Severus started. "You mean, this time 'round, you intend to get on the train?"

"Exactly." Binns sighed again. Really, writers really overused that form of self-expression too often, Severus mused to himself. Did they not have other words besides 'sighed' and 'exhaled'? Surely . . .

"But why do you want to leave?" Severus demanded, without even thinking.

"I never completed my goal, and, at the rate I've gone about it, I won't be able to, ever," declared the exasperated Binns. "Besides, the students of Hogwarts deserve someone new and fresh to instill their minds with new perspectives and ideas. Probably the same ones _I _had, if they had only cared to listen. I encountered . . . well, you remember Elsa Mammon, the Hermione Granger of her '93 class?"

"Definitely," Severus sneered. He had not liked the too-inquisitive Ravenclaw.

"Well, she came to Minerva the other day. I saw, she wanted Minerva to kick me out under pledge of retirement. She said that she could not do such a thing to me, and Elsa got quite irate. Said that I was a haggard old boot, worn out and of no use to anyone anymore, and declared that I deserved a good thrashing. I reckon that she's right."

"No!" Severus' protest came louder than he had expected. "That's entirely cruel of her. She had no right to say such a thing. How dare the woman say anything! Just for a bloody teaching position! Merlin!"

His conscience nagged him, though, at how persistent to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, up until last year . . .

"No, Severus, do not feel obliged to defend me. One reason I was always so reluctant to go was that I worried that my successor might be worse for the students than I was. I knew they cared so little about me, but oh! I cared about them!"

His lack of tears made the situation even more painful for Severus than any circumstance involving his nearly-adopted daughter Luna.

Then Binns raised his head and ventured, "But pray, let us talk of other things."

"Like . . .?" Severus sponsored warily, unsure of what the history teacher meant.

"Oh, anything. Shoes, ships, ceiling wax, cabbages, or kings!"

Even Snape had to smile at the unexpected paraphrase of Lewis Carroll.

………………

_Hope you liked! Ch. 12 will be better, I promise! _


	12. Of Luna's Love Life

**Chapter 12 **

All too soon, the summer came to a close. Hurriedly, since he had procrastinated so long to get his plans for the school year in order, he sacrificed his usual re-ordering of files and instead just focused on revitalizing his potions regime for the year. This he managed with a day and a half's work, which goes to show that if he skimped time on that, he really had gotten himself rather busy.

The auspicious day came without the great explosion of chattering returning students, nervous first years, and rather begrudging teachers. Instead, by the time the Hogwarts Express emptied, everyone seemed on their toes; so much had changed since they had left, and all knew that fact quite well. Nevertheless, Severus felt again the déjà vu emotions he normally experienced in the early September, and realized that, plus or minus a few faces, the Great Hall's opening ceremony and sorting seemed no different than it ever had.

At the head table, somehow Snape found himself sitting next to Binns. The dead potions master had felt very sorry for the history ghost after their revealing conversation weeks earlier. Ever since, Binns' health seemed in decline. Of course, though, ghosts did not really get sick, except perhaps mentally. And he had not technically lost the color from his cheeks, nor, probably, had his thick curling beard wilted, either. Nevertheless, Severus easily imagined these ailments upon him. His austere silence spoke volumes, but no one cared to hear. Not even other teachers. Severus threw him an encouraging look, making sure Binns saw it. He knew very well what loneliness could do to one's mind.

With a peripheral sense, Snape noticed someone's eyes trained upon him. Potter's, he mused disdainfully. A rock seemed to sink in his stomach, though his recently consumed ghostly steak could have taken the blame. (Neither he nor Binns ate at the actual feast, they had taken dinner as usual in Eden. Now they sat about awkwardly sipping evaporated pumpkin juice and wishing the ordeal could end quickly.) In any case, Severus remembered the memories he had imparted to the young sixth-year only months ago. He knew Potter had looked at them. How would he manage classes with the boy this year, now that the son of his worst enemy knew all his personal secrets?

He knew the needlessness of worrying about this, though. Similar thoughts of disturbance and anguish at the idea of Potter knowing the deepest, most pitiable places in his soul had dwelled in his fast-paced mind continually since the middle of July. Yet he could not take back the memories just like that, upon asking. After all, in life, Severus had prided himself on never Indian-giving. And, even if he did take the memories back, what then? Snape could do nothing but put them back in the imprint of his departed soul, and Potter would still live knowing their contents. What a desperate situation, with no visible solutions! Except, maybe, to not have Potter in class this year. He had thought about this extensively, but no amount of badgering would bend Minerva, he knew.

Minerva had told him a bit about the plans for Potter to have a few school credits for defeating Voldemort, so the boy no longer needed to take Defense Against the Dark Arts. He also did not need to participate in basic 7th year charm, and could take the accelerated charms class instead, should he choose to do so. He also scraped by his 7th year electives, too: Wilderness Survival and Muggle Studies. But, even with so many less classes in his schedule than anyone else, Potter still needed one last year of potions to graduate from Hogwarts.

Damn.

He realized, at this point, the touch of Binns' hand on his shoulder, shaking him. With a shudder of revulsion, Snape saw he had fallen into one of his increasingly-frequent reveries, unfortunately choosing the time to stare at Potter with an unfathomable look.

"I'm all right," he muttered to Binns a bit impatiently, "But I desperately needed that."

Binns gave a slow wink that reminded Snape so much of Dumbledore's that the potions master had to look away. Inadvertently, he scanned the rest of the Gryffindor table.

Yes, he saw all the Trio had returned to Hogwarts this year. Miss Granger he definitely had expected—her enthusiasm for school made even Severus want to nauseate. Having heard the vague rumors about Granger and the youngest boy Weasley, he did not see it too farfetched that Ron came back, either. But Harry? Did he still want to follow that fool's dream of being an auror? Snape smiled amusedly; the word auror reminded him of one of Luna's old religious doctrines . . . or, rather, one of her dad's. This consisted of the aurors wanting to take over the Ministry by a combination of 'dark magic and gum disease'. How quaint, and so like Xenophilius. She had said it somewhere within his hearing, once, though he could not remember where. Why could he remember so many phrases, yet not their contexts . . .

Speaking of Luna, he saw her at the Ravenclaw table. Strange, she and the Golden Trio shared the same year, now. What a concept to grapple. The blonde, noticing her friend's gaze from the head table, gave a kindly nod and a grin. Snape returned with the sharp incline of his head, and the side of his lip twitched in a split-second half-smile. Luna promptly proceeded to choke on her pumpkin juice at his attempted public chivalry.

Someone had repaired the Sorting Hat after its close-to-decimation over the summer, and went on to touch many a head in the course of the ceremony. As he did annually, he wondered exactly how lice-infested the hat had become over the years, and if anyone ever bothered to scrape out the bits of dandruff and oil from the uncouth pre-teens' heads.

Finally, the whole thing concluded with Minerva's introductions of the teachers. She did the order differently from Albus, a refreshing thing.

" . . . Professor Sprout, as usual, shall be teaching Herbology this year, but will be taking an additional course for advanced students, purely on homeopathically useful plants, or ones used commonly in health brews. She also has a new apprentice . . ."

Neville Longbottom, now a graduate of Hogwarts, stood from among the Gryffindor table and waved. A collective round of polite clapping and cheers burst from the assembly. Minerva had to raise her hand to silence everyone.

" . . . Professor Sinistra again shall be teaching Astronomy this year . . ."

Her hand moved to the tiny little half-goblin.

" . . . Professor Flitwick, is in charge of charms, no deviation from the norm . . ."

The Ravenclaws gave a collective upsurge of enthusiasm.

Minerva raised her hand again, holding it up permanently, and went on down the line, finishing with:

" . . . Professor Vector, Arithmancy . . ."

" . . . Professor Babbling is teaching Ancient Runes. . ."

" . . . Professor Binns, history,"

" . . . And Professor Snape has resumed his place in Potions."

A collective gasp emitted from practically every mouth in the hall, except the teachers, of course. Nevertheless, all eyes centered on Snape. In response, Severus glared acrimoniously at the ceiling. At least he no longer had to hide his ears with his hair anymore to prevent anyone to see how they tinged red with embarrassment.

Minerva moved on quickly. "Professor Weasley, arriving later this evening, will take over my usual office of teaching Transfiguration. I myself will oversee the instruction of curriculum left by Armando Dippet for Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Professor Weasley. She meant Percy Weasley, Severus knew. He still marveled that a student he had taught now entered the playing field for teaching. Snape heard someone at a near table whisper loudly:

"He couldn't be here earlier because he just returned from vacation with his older brothers. It's good the boy is no longer estranged from his family . . ."

Minerva's piercing voice went on with the introductions.

"Heads of House have not changed, except for Gryffindor. Slytherin's head is Professor Snape," (she nodded to him) "Ravenclaw's is Professor Flitwick, Hufflepuff's is Professor Sprout, and Gryffindor's new head shall be Professor Weasley."

She paused, then raised her glass.

"I have nothing else to say except this: To a new, productive year beyond the shadows of fear in which we have dwelled for decades!" she cried in a toast.

No one declined to follow her lead.

…………………………

After the feast, Severus bade Binns a fair goodnight, then melted into the floor. What a pleasant way to disappear so quickly from the noisome hubbub of benches squeaking, teenagers chattering, and other teachers bothering him. If only he could have done that _ab ovo_, in real life, he might have escaped many a beating off the Marauders, and his father, too. What an acute idea.

However, going vertically through the floor always made him a bit queasy, so Snape descended made his way to a flight of convenient stairs. Not that he needed the unsteady, moving hunks of rock and banister, but for conventionality's sake, he retained his tradition of using the wretched things.

As he waited for one particularly lingering staircase to meander to his feet, a pair of fervent arms threw themselves around his transparent waist and a soft cheek pressed against his tediously-solidifying shoulder.

"Severus, oh my goodness."

Snap easily recognized the voice of Luna, and felt his muscles cease to ossify. When startled by touch, he tended to tense up—an old habit from his youth that he had no intention of dropping.

Luna's chipper voice twiddled on like an overly-cheerful sparrow. "Oh my goodness, you're ridiculous, do you know that? I could have died of laughter."

"I'm a dangerous personality," Snape ventured, his voice somber but his features expressing his similar amusement. Luna still clasped him, longer than she usually did in greeting, and Snape felt even his toes and boots come into a state of physical being. He could not see them for Luna's head buried in his chest, however.

Something had deeply affected her; he could see the exhilarated flush in her face and the uncommon untidiness of her hair. But he would not pry, for the girl would tell him in good time. Why else would she have headed after him?

"I'm up for a talk if you want one," Luna suggested, finally letting go of his waist, but still clasping his arm fondly. "Dungeons?"

"Obviously. Unless it's quite trivial." But of course, he knew the object of her elation could not have triggered such a reaction in his student.

"Well, it may be a bit trivial," she admitted, "At least, to you, it would be."

"Luna, if it matters to you, in all probability it will also interest myself."

"You're too good to me," Luna smiled, and, arm in arm, they ascended onto the lazy staircase as it ground into place below them.

…………….

"It's a bit silly, I suppose," Luna admitted once within the sanctity of Severus' atelier, "But it pertains to your advice, in a way, so I thought I might as well share." She paused breathlessly.

"But, then, I make up excuses . . . I _had _to tell somebody. And there was no one else but you."

"You hold me in the greatest of suspenses," Severus quirked his eyebrow to express his perturbation. He could not deny the honor of receiving this bit of news, based on the fact she said, _And there was no one else to tell_. This shows how well he had done his personal assignment this summer. He had gained the full trust of an intelligent student. Severus thought a silent prayer of thanks to whatever entity had allowed this to happen—maybe just himself, unconsciously.

"Ok, so you know how you encourage me to basically just be myself this year, to disregard my façade and drop it completely?"

Had she truly gone mad? Of course, he remembered.

"Silly question," she realized, interpreting his facial expression, "But just recall that. In any case, I really took that to heart, and I applied it from the moment I boarded the train."

"I'm glad you did that. How were the results?"

He had gotten to the crux of the matter. Luna's smile expanded to as far as her muscles would allow. Snape decided that if she went any further, he might have to give her a slight dose of pessimism potion, a useful thing for when he underwent an unexplainable surge of giddiness.

"The results were absolutely _amazing_. I can't even describe it . . ." Luna impulsively hugged her favorite potions master again. "People noticed I had abandoned my Dirigilble earrings and bottlecap necklace, first off. I didn't tell them much, except that I thought they were silly, now. These were Slytherins, I'll have you know," she declared triumphantly.

"Then Martin Campbell, our most competitive Ravenclaw as you know, actually had a decent conversation with me about our Quidditch team for this year. And I swear, that kid never _ever _had talked to me before."

Her eyes glazed over, then, and Snape could tell she had begun to contemplate the piece of great news she had to tell. _Oh damn,_ he thought bitterly, _It's a boy. Some idiot made cow-eyes at her and now she's stark blind. Wonderful. I'll have some work to do. _

Now he waited for a name. But the one that erupted from her lips scared him out of his wits.

"But when I found Ginny and the Trio, before the train had left, Neville was there. Not that it was particularly amazing, that fact, but he saw me, and, since he looked lonely and rather tired, I went to talk to him. And . . . oh Severus! . . . he told me about his apprenticeship here at the school with Sprout, and I told him about my work with the Quibbler. Not mentioning you, of course."

Snape nodded in gratification, scared at to where this divulgence might lead . . .

"By then everyone in our carriage had tired of talking, and either dropped off or was engaged in books, and, right there, he took my hands, and then he kissed me!"

Snape's jaw lowered to an enviable degree.

"Oh, Severus, don't act like you're a postal box, it's a look most unbecoming to you."

"I'm aghast," Severus protested simply, but snapped his mouth quickly shut anyways. _"Longbottom? _You aren't serious."

Luna went on, a bit caught in her own memories, "He said he had missed me terribly over the summer. Which was grand, since I had missed him, too."

The look of astonishment and flabbergastedness still prominent in Severus' eyes, she mused, "Didn't I ever tell you how much I liked that boy?"

"Erm . . . no. If you had, I probably would have spontaneously combusted."

Luna shook her head.

"I guess we talk too much about my love interests," Snape gently tried to change the subject, without really succeeding. "I egotistically never bothered to ask about yours."

"That's all right. I never mind things like that."

He supposed that she did not. They had . . . how many intimate discussions since July? And Snape knew he had always concerned himself most with Luna's pining for her father, never taking into account that she might have a little heart-flutter on the side.

"Luna, why he?"

Severus felt almost betrayed. Perhaps Luna had purposefully hidden this from him. But, now, she came and revealed it as easily as . . . well, no. He supposed she had unintentionally not explained her feelings for the tormented young Gryffindor.

Luna shrugged in response. "Second year, or sometime about there. He had a sad look about him that made him absolutely adorable. And the way he slew Nagini last year was beautiful. But not the only reason I've always liked him a lot. You'd have to know him, I guess, but even if he's the biggest idiot in the whole school, he's a dear. And better him, from your perspective, than Harry Potter, right?"

"Right." Severus decided he did not like this subject at all. "Well, what do you intend to do about him?"

"Marry, if he asks me."

Snape nodded; he doubted Neville would get the courage to kiss a girl if he did not really like her _a lot_.

"That might be jumping somewhat far ahead, but, judging from what _I _know of his personality, I think it not highly improbable that he might, rather later," he confirmed, trying to prevent any hint of dubiousness from pervading his voice.

"But, pray, how can you not talk to anyone about this affair besides me?"

Luna threw her hands to the ceiling. "It seemed more natural than anyone else. If my father still lived, well . . . I would have told him."

Severus' heart gave a leap. Even if this Ravenclaw had fallen for the most imbecilic, misfortunate boy in the whole school, if she considered him a replacement for her father, well, Snape could deal with an oafish somewhat-halfway-son-in-law.

"I'm honored you think of me in that way," he stated honestly, gazing into her liquid eyes. "You don't understand how much that means, and you probably never will, but . . ."

He left the rest of what he said unspoken, and, hesitantly, hugged Luna.

…………………

_Aw schnizzles. I meant to include Harry and Hermione as more than just a reference. Oh well. Next chapter! _


	13. Save the Slytherins

_Ok, FINALLY the precious boy-who-lived will make an appearance, not that he's that important for most of the rest of the story. After all, this is a SNAPE fanfiction, and even in death, Snape will ultimately try to AVOID his least favorite Gryffindor. Bwahahaha. _

**Chapter 13 **

Luna left with possibly more luster in her eyes than when she had originally when she swept upon her beloved potions master. A good thing, Snape decided when he watched her leave. If he could serve as a replacement father to her, and she felt that she trusted him enough to consider him so, then, by Merlin, he would treasure the gems of her supernal nature. Nay, he would guard them with his entire soul.

As he reclined pensively, savoring the evening's experience, a sudden thought struck him. The Slytherin children. He had neglected them thus far.

Over the summer, Snape had spent a lot of time pondering over the plight of the Slytherin house. After Riddle's destitution, he could not tell for sure how the general public would regard Slytherins, but Severus had a good guess. Most likely the image of the Dark Lord would hold fast in everyone's minds, and none would want their children sorted into Slytherin. They thought the house cursed. Snape snorted with disgust. No, he held very few doubts as to Slytherin's purity, spellwise. He himself had often researched Slytherin to extensive degrees. Generally, Snape found that although the great old Salazar would not make the best roommate in the world, the ancestor of Riddle had set many magnificent and terrible defenses on his house to protect its . . . oh, Snape almost wanted to say 'inmates.' Sometimes the children undoubtedly did act like jailbirds, grant that, but they usually had good reason.

Take Marvellus Ponderosa, the gangly mousy-haired boy who would take over as the Slytherin Quidditch Captain this year. The innards of his ostensibly quiet home in Bath would shock anyone not within his family. Snape remembered how, in his first year, the boy had thought it perfectly acceptable to approach any person he liked and compel them to complete any activities he desired with them. (Usually not PG-13 rated.) His parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles all lived in the same house, and every single one of the adults considered incest the norm. No wonder the boy had found it strange when Severus, for the sanctity of every virgin in the school, had to quarantine him until the child learned to control his sexual energy. How sad, though, that he already felt like doing that so young . . .

Then Celestine Isaimno, the poor dear had gotten herself into a bad crowd over the summers away from Hogwarts. She began snorting that revolting Muggle drug cocaine, and brought it with her for her fifth year. Severus soon put a stop to that, and took the necessary precautions with her until she had got over her addiction. He needed to make sure she had not begun again over the holiday, even though he had alerted her parents to watch out for her. One rule Severus abided by in for all his dealings with students: do not trust the parents to do anything about it. Because, if the kid managed to get into trouble while under their observation and care, very likely when the kid went back home, nothing would change.

Except in the case of Alycia Gaggleson. Snape had to accredit to himself this one success story that did not backfire in the end. Her parents had often fought between each other, to no end, apparently. Having seen some of her memories, Snape determined that really, he could almost call the scenes worse than at his own house. Both mother and father seemed as headstrong as the opposite, and neither would back down for anything, not even their terrified daughter's screaming. One day, in a desperate act of uncontrolled magic, Alycia made a knife fly from the kitchen drawer to where it stabbed her father in the stomach. Eight-year-old Alycia, though realizing what she had done, simply ran to her room and hid while her father groaned and, eventually died, despite his wife's efforts to heal him. They managed to hide the murder from the world, but her mother understandably despised Alycia evermore. Alycia grew up a bit, fell into deep depression over her deed, and took to stealing firewhiskey from the cupboard. At Hogwarts, she could not get away with drink, however though she hid it for an entire year. Snape had intercepted, helped her attain treatment for her disorders, and let her mother know about the situation. Mrs. Gaggleson, realizing her daughter actually did feel pentinent and did not actually want her father dead, took the girl home with open arms at the end of the year. Alycia had not a problem since.

All this in his head, Snape realized with a shock that, probably, all his Slytherins would have a harder time in school this year. Mainly, he supposed, due to the fact that the other houses would openly disdain them when they had no backbone. The numbers of Slytherins had dramatically decreased this year, for one reason or another, and they would continue to plummet if someone did not do something to restore the grandeur and reputation of the house.

Of course, who else would do it but Snape?

He would need help, though. Although Minerva had made house classification unnecessary for organizing classes, making scheduling much more simple and allowing for much more exposure between houses, this would not suffice. An aura of respect would need to permeate from all the houses, and the constant, almost racist bashing of one house or another (usually of Slytherin) must cease immediately. Starting from the heads of houses.

Snape had to admit, he had held a bias against Gryffindors from the moment he learned about Hogwarts from his mother Eileen. This intensified with his meeting James Potter and Sirius Black, for obvious reasons. Maybe, though, if what the Baron had told him held true . . . and Snape doubted that the Baron would lie . . . then he himself had direct Gryffindor blood. Thus, he found himself intimately close to his greatest bane. He sighed, how pitiable he would seem when his students found out—for he must tell them, certainly. Maybe, if luck visited his doorstep, someone else might have a similar position to his own. Perhaps.

But back to the heads of houses . . . Severus made a mental list of people he needed to talk to about this uncompromising situation. Minerva, for the sake of her post as Headmistress, Flitwick for Ravenclaw, Percy Weasley for Gryffindor, and Pomona for Hufflepuff. A solid list, a neat list, one well-compiled and clear-cut. But before he spoke to any of them, he must approach his Snakes. They needed him, he knew.

…………

Ordinarily, Severus would not have found any trouble in getting to the Slytherin common room from his own office. It took perhaps five minutes' walk in a certain direction, and that all. However, no sooner had he floated through his own room's door when the sound of footsteps accosted him.

Luna, again? No, probably not. He heard two sets of feet, the dulcet tones of two muffled voices. Wait, perhaps . . . oh bother. Snape did _not _feel like meeting Longbottom right that moment. He rushed on, but the steps began to hurry.

"Harry, he probably is in the Slytherin common room!"

"Yeah . . . wait, there! I see . . . hey, Professor!"

Snape turned coldly around. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. He wished it _had _been Luna and Neville, now.

"What do you want, Potter, Granger? In case you have not noticed, the war is over, so you nincompoops can leave my already tormented soul in bloody _blessed _peace." The poignancy in his voice almost reeked of self-spite.

"Professor Snape," Hermione called, venturing forward. She had about thirty feet to clear between where they stood and where the dead potions master hovered. "I was wondering if you would care to . . . well . . . let us talk with you."

"What about?" His voice resounded curtly, bouncing off the cold stone walls in an eerie manner.

"Just . . . well . . . agree, and we'll tell you."

Snape made a show of considering her offer, though she had piqued his curiosity more than he would admit.

"Where's your friend Weasley?"

Harry looked rather embarrassed, walking up to Hermione. "He . . . well, he didn't want to come."

"Then I don't know why either of you did." But, begrudgingly, Severus floated towards them, his face grim. "Get on with your questions. I know you probably have many, Potter, considering your intellectual acumen."

Potter took a deep breath, resigning not to let himself fly off the handle, Snape easily saw.

"Professor, I'm not sure what entirely Hermione came for, but I think, collectively, we're sorry for how we've always treated you over the years and everything." Harry closed his eyes, and, in a rehearsed mode, began to recite, "From me alone, you saved my life more times than I can count, and never did much that was _really_ aggressive towards me. Nothing that you wouldn't do to anyone else, I guess. But I never thanked you properly, and just caused you grief all the time without thinking you would really care. But I've been thinking a lot this summer, and it was horribly indecent of me to just . . . barge into your memories that one time . . . and to always talk back to you like you were just . . . I dunno . . . a bothersome gnat or something."

Severus felt his hard scowl slowly fading into a mundanely dour expression. Potter seemed to mean what he said.

"You did so much for me . . . for us, professor . . . and I don't know what I can do to make it up to you. You were the bravest man I ever knew, frankly."

"I was not brave."

The words slipped from Snape's lips easier than water cascading from a cliff, useless to defy gravity.

Harry snorted. "What _were _you afraid of, then? You put up no fuss to being a triple-agent for a man who deceived you and the son of your worst enemy. You acted selflessly all along, sticking to your story and never budging no matter how much everyone hated you. You never failed, never dropped your confidence and composure, always managed a way to get on with it all-"

"-No!" Severus' eyes glistened in anger. Hermione respectfully watched all this from a few steps away, though she seemed to want a word in edgewise. Snape paid her little attention.

"No, I was _not _all you say!" Harry, while attempting to glorify the potions master, had instead pointed out his weakest links. Snape advanced on Harry, furiously desperate.

"Would you know how often I wanted to _die _during the whole endeavor? You wouldn't call _that _putting up no fuss. I did not act selflessly, ever, I always did everything for your damned mother! Who didn't even _care _when she learned about it! And certainly, I never balked from my position once attained, for if I did, it surely would mean my immediate demise and those of over a dozen besides me! And, would you know, it's _not_ an easily comprehendible situation to have the entire world against you! Not just in feeling, but in truth! No one cared a nargle's behind about me, ever!" This statement, probably his most powerful yet, set his eyes swimming. More quietly, he concluded:

"And no, Potter, I did fail more than you think. I failed myself. I failed in life. Overall, in the general scope of matters, I was on the side of the winners, but I personally failed. And, Potter, I never have had the slightest amount of self-confidence for longer than five minutes, and if you think my quick temper is a mark of composure, I recommend getting your head-screws tightened."

Snape, having winded down a bit, now reasoned, "I suppose the only thing you supposed right about me is the fact that I've always managed to get through everything, but Merlin knows how much effort _that _took."

His gaze averted from Potter's wide, astonished eyes by the sound of a sob. Miss Granger held her head in her hands, and she had begun to weep almost silently.

"I apologize, Miss Granger, but I cannot imagine that you came to call upon me without supposing I would erupt with this galling behavior of mine."

"No," she gasped, "No, it's not your fault, not your fault at all, Professor. I just . . . well, it pains me to see that my suppositions for years have all been proved right."

Now Snape took his turn to stare in silent question. "You are a very insightful child if you understood the half of it." Then he turned to Harry again.

"Just . . . just don't keep up this whole making a bloody martyr out of me. It's maddening," he said, almost gently to the boy. Harry nodded solemnly.

"I would . . . but it's the truth. And the truth is all I tell."

Snape closed his eyes, then shook his head. "Worth asking, at any rate." He opened his eyes again, as though seeing the pair in a new light. "By the way," he mused, thinking of his meditations from earlier, "Miss Granger, have you considered at all the social implications that may occur consequential from the end of the war here at Hogwarts?"

Hermione paused, then nodded her curls in assent. "It would seem," she stated, sniffing up a few last tears, "That after the demise of Voldemort—isn't it nice to be able to say his name now without fear?—well, since Voldemort was in Slytherin, isn't everyone going to hate Slytherins now more than ever?"

"Exactly my point," Snape sneered, "And Gryffindor, host to at least four or five heroes from the great decisive battle, will be seen in a much more inflated glow of magnificence."

"But that's why there are people like _you_, Professor," Harry declared, almost beaming. "You died a martyr, one of the most honorable and worthy of all those who died, only defeated by Voldemort himself!"

Snape frowned more than ever. "Did you see his attack on me with your own eyes?"

Harry shook his head . . . too quickly for Snape's taste, though. "No. No. Of course not. We just barely got there in time to get the memories . . ."

_Oh, damn you to hell, Potter_ Snape thought bitterly. _You were there, I felt your presence that night, idiot! You might have saved many lives by killing Voldemort right there while you watched me die. You might have even saved _my _life, but of course, that small item could never fit on your agenda. You Gryffindors are all compulsive liars, I swear! _

"Harry, you know that's not really-" Hermione began warily, but Harry threw her a look that plainly said _Just shut up, it's better this way._ Though not easily succumbed, Granger looked at the floor and said nothing.

_Well, at least Granger did not _want _to lie about it. Why do I care so much, anyways, whether they saw how Riddle killed me or not? _

"Back to what I was saying," Snape declared, "I would like to make a request to you both. For the sake of Hogwarts' unity, Potter, Granger, I beseech you and your friends to be forgiving to the Slytherin house. For many of them, their vices are no fault of their own."

Harry seemed full of trepidations, as though debating whether he should sell his soul to the devil like Faust.

"Harry, you did say that you didn't 'know what you could do to make it up to me.' Since you continue to hold by what you deem 'the truth' and refuse me any privacy on that small matter, then I request that you hold your tongue unless you intend to say 'yes, sir, I will' right now."

Snape almost smiled, feeling like the devil incarnate himself.

Belied, Harry Potter nodded. "I guess I am sort of a celebrity in a way, and people respect me," he decided. "And Hogwarts really should not have to resort to putting down one house or another for something that they could not help. I mean, if I were a normal kid in Slytherin, I don't think I'd be very proud to have been in Voldemort's trademark house, but I'd be honored to be in that of Severus Snape."

Severus snorted. "You pugnacious liar," he could not hold back, "You damn well know you're even _more _honored to be in the favorite house of Albus Dumbledore. But I see you mildly understand the idea."

Harry and Hermione nodded in unison.

"Do that, then. People like you, think your opinion is valuable. Convince others like yourself to not degrade the Slytherin name with pointless bashing and hatred that will never solve anything. Then, perhaps, we can prevent one of the oldest traditions in England from falling in upon itself."

"We will do that, Professor," declared Harry, and neither teenager moved.

"Well, go on then, I have no more to say to you," Snape demanded almost in a jocular manner. The adolescents responded by slowly turning away and heading towards the stairs. Snape watched them go, and did not find himself surprised when Hermione whispered hoarsely over her shoulder:

"By the way, Professor . . . I am _so _sorry that we couldn't save you!" The tears in her eyes testified to her sincerity.

…………….


	14. Initiation', and Prelude to Bonfire

_Before I begin: is-a-palindrome_, _dear, this is going to be a conglomeration of concepts and ideas from a place we know and love. It won't be too hard to guess where, once the ball gets rolling, though the first part of this chapter is NOT a reflection of it at all. Just think of Snape kinda like a very reticent Dennis. I only hope I can capture the essence of the place . . . _

_Anyways, everyone, enjoy the chapter! Must attribute much thanks to excessivelyperky, elemesnedene, duj, Silverthreads, iminthebusinessofmisery, Thyrin, Ara Catin, and everyone else who reviews consistently! I really, really appreciate all the constructive criticism and the interest you share with me. I can't say how much you guys and gals have lightened the end of my summer. Of course, thanks to is-a-palindrome for the original inspiration for this work and for keeping up with reading it. Additionally, I've been reading excessivelyperky's _The Birthday Present _religiously for the past week, so if I imbibe a few concepts or ideas here and there that I soaked in, I publicly apologize. It's a really good story, to the point that I am sometimes unconsciously confusing it for canon. _

_But now on to 14! _

**Chapter 14 **

Snape floated into the Slytherin common room, his mind filled with the image of Granger boxing Potter's ears as soon as they had got out of earshot. It intensely amused him, almost to the point of a smile. Any intimation of this, however, died and morphed into a _schurke_-like scowl when he saw a cluster of students in the center of the common room.

"Go on, Auguste! Do it!"

"You better, 'cause otherwise we'll use the eggs . . ."

"Come on, blokes, give him a bit of space."

"Oh, I got a great idea for Frances!"

"Shut up, Sully, you know very well we're waiting for Auguste to do his dare first."

About half the Slytherin house centered around the figure of Auguste Mortins, one of the nervous first-years who had entered the Snakes' band just that evening.

"Guys," he said, "Are you sure I have to do _this? _I mean, there are girls around . . ."

"Damn the girls!" screamed a female sixth year. "We still want to see!"

"See what?" demanded Snape, a sardonic tint to his voice as he fitfully strode through the collected students into the center of the circle. Auguste trembled as his head of house bore down upon him. Reaching the small boy's side, Snape tensely began to search the ranks of the older students. The silent anger within him penetrated their very souls, at least he hoped. In any case, they all stood terrified and paralyzed.

Two seventh-year boys held bowls filled to the brim with eggs that stank even through the shells. Gathering from the conversation Snape had overheard, he could easily tell what he interrupted. Like crazy Muggle fraternity boys, the students of Slytherin aimed to start the first-years off with humiliation and degradation.

"I have not seen a more disgusting state of affairs since I last cleaned up a batch of Tulinsilia potion attempted by Neville Longbottom," Snape drawled, his eyes darkening. A rustle of chitters rippled through the students before him, but only for a second. "I am thoroughly ashamed of you all. How dare you taint our house with such reckless, mundane, utterly pointless shenanigans?" He did not break his scrutiny of the crowd, noting each and every child. "I find this extremely tedious and disappointing, but I see no other possible alternative to take fifty points from . . . Slytherin." He caught himself just in time before saying 'Gryffindor.' How strange, to take such a large number of points from his own house!

Everyone appeared properly shocked.

"Oh yes," Severus declared silkily, "You are all in trouble. Don't even think about an expedient departure from the room, Higgins," he added with a regal sneer. The third-year boy he addressed cowered, unused to having his mind broken into so abruptly. "If you so much as take a step out of here, I shall in turn plan your expedient departure from _Hogwarts_."

No one dared to move even the slightest inch after that comment.

"First years," Snape declared, "Come forth."

About eight timid Slytherin recruits virtually tiptoed to the front, to join Snape and Auguste.

"You shall all come with me. Chancery?"

A large black-haired boy stepped forward, ready to flinch if Snape struck him a blow.

"Burgandy?"

A slight brunette girl slid to the front in a distinctly oily manner.

"You are prefects," Snape began to chastise them. "I am not going to ask _how _or _why _you allowed this to happen, but I know that _neither _of you shall retain your badge if it occurs a second time."

"Yes, Professor." The two looked very ashamed.

Snape threw a careful glance around at the assembly once more. "Remember," he reminded sternly, "At one time or another, all of you were first years. I know that I, as an adult, cannot possibly prevent _all_ age discrimination. However, I will let you now know that I do _not _condone it. Being a cat to the fledgling sparrow will _not_ make you a better Slytherin. I cannot see how you would think that disrespecting the boundaries and integrity of those who might later be your mediwitch, co-worker, or even Minister might be the wisest idea."

The students appeared more than uncomfortable. Severus figured he had hit the nail on the head. While he still had their attention, he went on:

"I will also give you to understand that although the Dark Lord has dissipated into a definite non-existence, the taint of his evil has not abandoned the hearts of those in bias against this house." He then proceeded to jump to an almost unrelated subject.

"The House system has become a way to judge the witches and wizards of England. The stigma is that everyone in the same house must have the same principles and way of life." He sighed. Severus had nothing of Malfoy principles, and did not like the way Lucius lived at all.

"But, students, reflect upon this. Even though, for years, members of my family have always made their respective ways into Slytherin, and I myself have always thought myself a very Slytherin person, I learned not long ago that, in my life, I was the one of the purest of Gryffindor's descendants."

A collective gasp bubbled through the room.

"So, you see, the whole Sorting has no value except for placing students of certain personality types together, as a way to find people with common interests and formulate long-lasting friendships."

_Though that certainly did not work for me, _Snape thought to himself. Which made him wonder about what Dumbledore had said once, about him being sorted too early . . .

"So what exactly are you saying?" piped up one of the bolder students from the back row.

"I am saying this," Snape declared, a bit flustered at the fact that he had not made his point yet, "Respect the other houses. Give them no reason to hate us. You, of all people, know the honor in being placed in Slytherin, but suppose, for some reason, you got sorted somewhere else? If we had no Slytherin, where would you go?"

Dead silence.

"Tom Riddle came from our house. Parents, as a general rule, probably do not want their children attending Hogwarts in a house bridled with shame and a long-lost honor. In time, Slytherin might dwindle to nothing. Even this year, consider this: on average, we have one thousand students at this school. Fifteen and some-odd years ago, when I first began teaching here, the average number of students in each house was two hundred and fifty, exactly one quarter. That's the way it was supposed to be, that's the way the founders originally wanted it. About forty children sorted into each house class out of the hundred and fifty (or so) new students. Riley," he demanded, addressing one of the seventh-years, "How many students in your class?"

"Thirty nine, Professor."

"Burgandy?"

The young sixth-year girl paused. "Thirty seven."

"Malone?"

"Thirty-even in the fifth year, Professor."

"Trepeditous?"

A porky fourth-year answered, "Well, erm . . . twenty six, sir."

"Sully Mackintosh?"

"Twenty eight, and we're third years."

"I knew that very well, thank you Mackintosh. Exicus?"

"Seventeen last I counted, professor."

Snape looked at the first years. "And you altogether make nine." He expanded his arm in a gesture of helplessness. "I rest my case."

He paused, examining the helplessness of this psychological depression. In some way, the potions master knew he needed to alleviate the tragic depth he had caused, while still driving his point home.

"Perhaps some of you watch Muggle movies, though I doubt many of you would admit to such mundane activities. I can understand why you would not regard it as a very honorable form of entertainment, but, having grown up with them constantly forced under my abnormal nose, I find that they have their value. The Muggles have developed their own alternatives to magic over the years, and with them have paved the way for thinking generations to come. As they stand, however, they still have a knack for radical philosophy, which they express through their media. I will now take the time to quote the movie _The Gladiator._" Snape's voice assumed a high falsetto that would have tickled the funnybone if his expression had not shown such austerity.

"'You wrote to me once, listing the four chief virtues. Wisdom, Justice, Fortitude and Temperance. As I read the list, I knew I had none of them. But I have other virtues, father. Ambition, that can be a virtue when it drives us to excel. Resourcefulness. Courage . . . Devotion . . . But none of my virtues were on your list.'"

The quiet's intenseness would have made it easy to hear even a dust mite sneeze. Someone clapped a few times, hesitantly, then stopped embarrassedly.

"By referring to this," Snape began to analyze, "I mean to express how the world, in general, feels towards us. Even when we have such good qualities—an ability to use what we can where we can, a type of bravery that is not reckless as the Gryffindor brand, an expression of loyalty less blind yet just as thorough as a Hufflepuff's, and, above all, a sense of competitiveness and willingness to do anything to succeed beyond Ravenclaws. In other words, we hold and exemplify bits and pieces of the other houses, but they do not see us in that way. They see that we cunningly scheme against them, they see us apparently disregard the rules without fear of retribution, they see us hurt them when we only seek to avenge the friends (or ourselves, sometimes!) whom they slaughter, and then they see us cheat on our assignments."

Fifty heads hung in shame.

"We do not have to let them see this, however. It is our unconscious choice to only reflect our worst when around them. I make a suggestion that I encourage you to act upon this year, if it appeals to your innate pragmatism—show them all up, simply. Smile on the Gryffindors, do not bother the Ravenclaws to do your homework for you, help the Hufflepuffs feel included and loved. Use your determination, individualism, and goal-orientation to your advantage to work harmoniously with the other houses."

Snape decided to end on this mildly positive note, and suddenly announced, "We're having a bonfire—Chancery and Burgandy, you are both in charge of setting it alight."

"Yes, Professor," Burgandy answered quickly, and raced off, just on Chancery's heels. The entire room began to hum with hubbub.

"Someone get the house members not present currently, the bonfire, as always, is a mandatory house activity" Snape called, and found himself answered by six pairs of feet pounding up the stairs to the dorms.

The first-years began to filter away, but the potions master caught them just in time.

"Wait," he demanded, literally snatching one by the collar. "We are now going to have a brief talk. You obviously are not in trouble; I merely want to affirm that you have the best educational experience possible while you are here."

When the majority of the older students had escaped out of the common room, either to their dorms or to help with rigging the bonfire, Snape motioned to the velvet green couches.

"Please, seat yourselves."

Obediently, almost with ashamed _verlegenheit_, the youngest students in the house settled onto the sofas. Following them, Snape moved to their focal point to sit on top of the sturdy oak coffee table. They had no excuse not to look at him.

"I doubt any of you know what is happening at present," he began, "So I may as well begin there. The bonfire is somewhat of a . . . tradition here in Slytherin house. Begun six or seven house-heads ago, under Septimus Umbridge (an ancestor to the loathsome woman at the Ministry!), we hold them periodically."

Here came the hard part. How to describe the bonfire? "I usually broach a subject of . . . a more tender nature, one that normally does not come into conversation with except with the closest of friends, and volunteers discuss their take on it. Although you are required to be there, and to listen to the others as they speak. I have found, myself, easier to talk under the conditions enforced by the relative darkness, for it feels more anonymous. At the same time, it manages to allow everyone a chance to reveal their fears, dreams, and worries. No one, especially a Slytherin, has a perfect life, and the bonfire is a way of venting safely, to find relief after one's expelled the toxins brewing in one's mind."

A timid hand raised. "Professor?"

"Don't raise your hand in a purely Slytherin setting. That increases the awkwardness and places more of a space between us. But you may speak."

The little blonde girl with melting blue eyes gazed at him earnestly. "I heard a little bit about bonfire from one of the girls who was . . . upstairs during the initiation," she said slowly, clearly unsure what to make of the experienced she had faced. "And she said there's always a lot of crying at bonfires."

"Sometimes, certainly," Snape nodded. "For many, it can be a very emotionally uplifting experience, if one can look at it in the right way." Remembering the looks on the faces of those who actually participated in the discussions in _his _school years, Snape rather regretted having been among the few who did not find sanctity after relieving his overburdened soul. Sometimes he felt hesitant because he felt that everyone would shirk from hearing about _all _that had happened to him over the years—his father's hatred of him and abuse of his mother, his mother's rare affections for him and her eventual insanity, the embarrassment of his younger sister for her lack of magic, his worry over that same sister because of her unruly Muggle friends, and his unrequited love for Lily Evans. Not to mention, the constant depression, self-pity, and destructive habits that resulted from his ill life. Thinking about all this, no wonder he took the Mark! But he never voiced any of his complaints at bonfire, ever. He saw no purpose in bringing his pride 'down' to the level he saw others carry themselves. His other reason: some of the matters spoken about, especially by the girls, seemed far too trivial compared to his own problems. Still, nowadays, he wondered what might have happened had he ever condescended to speak his mind and share his belabored heart.

"After all," he spoke after some moment's deliberation, "Sorrow shared is sorrow halved. Or so I believe the expression goes."

He saw the eyes of the first years cloud with a bit of anxiety, as if wondering what in the world they might say at bonfire.

"You can share good news, did I not mention?" the potions master added with a smirk. "Or even indifferent information that means nothing significant to anyone but yourself, such as how you felt when your dog died when you were three, how you think we should all be under communist rule, or even just rant about how much you want to go back in time to meet Grindewald! Whatever it is, it should be honest. That is the only requirement. If you speak, you must be honest. If you saw someone do something . . . that you feel should be addressed, you can do so at bonfire. I strongly encourage you to use names, even. Stand up and tell them what you thought about it." Snape had come up with this last idea. Bonfires, in his day, served only as comfort for people who had a worse home life than a Hogwarts life. Snape had born the brunt of 'initiations' for first-years in his own day, and thought he should have had the chance to say something about it to the entire house in later years. Bellwood had not encouraged anything but the deep revelations of the soul, however. Plus, Snape did not like to voice his opinion at bonfire, anyways, so it did not matter terribly. Though, granted, it had made enough of an impact to make him add that extra clause in his own head-of-house dominion.

"Not many people actually use names," he admitted. "But I would greatly appreciate if you did. Often, when one says something on the accord of '_someone _really said something mean to me today', very likely that person is not listening intently. It breaks the mental barriers and helps to solve problems more effectively. Even if it causes a temporary embarrassment, it can truly rectify a bad situation."

The young students nodded. One piped up, "Um, Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Could you explain about . . . what happened to you? They said you weren't . . . like you are now . . . last year."

Snape had prepared himself for the question. "Remind me at the bonfire. I'll discuss it thoroughly, then."

He surveyed the students. "I'd like, before we go out there, to have a brief introduction to each of you. Name . . . ah . . ." He floundered for easy, fill-in-the-blanks questions to which he supposed the children could have a ready answer. "Your name, what creature you think you would choose as an animagus, what you enjoy doing on a rainy afternoon, and your favorite ice cream flavor. Or anything else pertinent."

Each student, in turn, divulged the required information. Snape made mental lists in his mind of certain children they respectively reminded him of, and tried to remember the more interesting facts they mentioned about themselves. Of course, he would have trouble remembering them at first, but he would get them straight eventually. Finally, they had gone through all nine first-years.

Before he could say, "Let us be gone to the bonfire, then," one of the little people demanded:

"What about you?"

The students chimed after the sole bold one. "Yeah, professor, tell us."

"It's no fair if we know nothing about you."

"Fine," Snape scowled, defeated. "My name, as you well know, is Severus Snape. If I had an animagus, I probably would be . . ." He spat out the first thing that came to mind, "A coyote. People normally dislike them, except when the animal is tamed and trained. They are exceptionally intelligent, and can be very social creatures, although an occasional brute might run amuck and live a solitary life."

_That's actually a great metaphor for me,_ Snape decided, amazed at his glib explanation.

"I enjoy . . . well, not very much you could relate to at your age. I write sometimes, very rarely. I find passion for the Dark Arts, though I am not so fascinated by them now as in my youth, for I know the disaster they can cause. Though I never had much free time until . . . well, my death . . . I spend my free hours in deep discourse with friends, reading, sometimes viewing Muggle movies, and, very often, thinking." He decided to eliminate _drinking strong beverages _and _editing entries to the Quibbler _from the list, and dismissed also _plotting ways to avoid Harry Potter this year_.

"What about?" someone imposed.

"That is absolutely _none_ of your business whatsoever," Snape declared a bit coldly. "I must add, here, that I tend to be a rather harsh person at times, with a very hasty temper and a tendency to hold grudges. I must be frank on that point." He deliberated. "Before you are entirely scared out of your wits by me, I like plain vanilla ice cream. Sometimes with a dash of raspberry jam as a topping."

This brought a few hesitant smiles to the feeble children.

"Come now, to bonfire," he declared in an almost genial manner, and led them out to the secret site on the grounds where the rest of the Slytherin house awaited.

…………

_I'm not actually going to go into depth about the bonfire. Too trivial in the general scope of things, and I'm worried I gave it more weight here than it deserves. But I'll let you know what happens at it very briefly next chapter. It's just . . . well, in real life, as _is-a-palindrome_ readily knows, we never record what goes on at campfire, either on photograph, video, or anything else. I think that I might include too much about other peoples' real lives in the fictional experience. So I'm not going to trespass the uncharted, wild waters of the bonfire except in a brief summary, because I might feel like it's a betrayal of our real-life campfires. Does this make any sense? It does to me, but it may not to you. I'm sorry if you're severely disappointed. Do not hesitate to review, however! _


	15. Eating Babies and Running with Shears

_Must apologize for my lack of updating. School started. _

_Please review when you read! It really encourages me to go on. _

_Oh, I have a few more new illustrations at my deviantart! For Chapter 11, plus a copy of Luna's July 1998 Quibbler cover. Take a look, my name on deviantart is the same as here. xXblacksakuraXx _

_And it recently came to my attention that in chapter 14, I refer to the previous head of Slytherin house as 'Bellwood.' That's the first instance I've taken excessivelyperky's _The Birthday Present _and imbibed it as canon. I publicly apologize, that was unintentional. _

**Chapter 15 **

The bonfire went as well as anyone could remember. Most students had a lot to say about their summers, and, consequently, the hours ticked away until nearly one in the morning. Snape flattered himself that he had gotten his message to _some _of his Snakes, for many expressed their resolutions to change their attitudes to certain people in the other houses. However, even the girl who had mentioned the number of tears shed at bonfires could not possibly have predicted how many house members fell—or nearly fell—to them that night. Many Slytherins had family members or close friends either dead or sent to Azkaban from affiliation with the Dark Lord, and almost no one could restrain their grief. Snape himself found his eyes slightly damper than usual when he retired to his rooms for the night.

Morning came late, or so it seemed. For an hour, Snape lay in bed, waiting for his alarm charm to signal. Had he somehow missed it?

No, the large clock in his study proved otherwise. Five A.M., and the houselves would not serve breakfast in Eden until seven. Disgruntled at his early waking, Severus went out anyways.

When Snape went 'out', though, he literally left the Hogwarts castle premises. He easily float-walked through the halls, town the fickle staircases, and through the great unopened door into the Hogwarts garden.

Why the garden? Snape himself did not have a reason. Granted, he did not regret the idea's springing into his mind once he found himself in the warm early-autumn sunshine.

The dew still hung tenderly to each green leaf he saw, and the grass appeared as though it had made one great last effort to look fresh before dieing into the earth in hibernation. Oh, a pity he could no longer feel the clean scents of a new day in his nostrils! Of all olfactory enjoyments Snape lamented losing most, he included this, among the poignant stench of just-brewed coffee or tea, plus . . .

"Heliotrope!"

The matronly figure of the Hufflepuff head of house accosted the despondent potions master, proffering a bunch of garnered purple blooms in clay pots. "Severus, what a coincidence! I was just going to bush up your favorite flower patch! How lovely to see you out here!"

Snape looked at her curiously, trying not to display the distrust and dislike in his heart show through to the kind-hearted soul. He never had got on well with Professor Sprout, with her phrases that always seemed to end with overly-optimistic exclamation marks and her undeniably daunting brightness. Strangely but simply, he never could respect a person who looked so damn happy all the time.

But he could not recall the instance he ever had told Sprout that he did indeed like heliotrope immensely. Oh, right, he had not told her—she had found out accidentally. Sitting in the garden one evening many years ago, he had let a flood of nostalgia sweep over him thanks to a sprig of heliotrope, like that his _dear_ old mother had grown. His aggression towards the dead woman had erupted, along with self-pity for her lack of motherly nature. Sprout _happened _to notice the anxiety of the then-much-younger wizard and, after attempting to console him, let him take a pot of it home to the dungeons. Snape had lost the plant over many years, but, with the self-watering spell he placed on it once, he decided it could possibly have survived the war. In any case, ever since that night, Sprout had always alluded to the little cluster of heliotrope plants in one corner of the Hogwarts garden as 'your favorite flower patch' as she had just now. Snape had no idea what she might have called it between other teachers, and decided he did not truly care to know.

In the meantime, while Severus deliberated whether to answer or not, Sprout seemed to oversee what others might term as rudeness for not responding. She instead lay down her basket of pots and removed her gloves.

"It should be a frightfully warm day, I think," she decided avidly, gazing at the just-risen sun high above in the blue sky. "Almost summery!"

Snape made a noncommittal grunt. He did not feel like talking to Sprout, and realizing the impossibility of the futile and vague idea of uninterrupted contemplation. Ah well, _se le vie. _Or, he remembered as a certain Doris Day song leaped into his mind, _que sara sara. _

"How are you today, at any rate?" Sprout pursued nonchalantly, not observing Snape's passiveness towards speech at that moment. She laid both gloves in her basket and snipped a slightly-rained-on pink rose from a bush.

"Comme ci, comme ca," responded the hesitant potions master, unwittingly raping the poor beauty of the French language with his bad British faux-accent.

"That's a good thing, right?" asked the woman, then burst into a fit of laughter. Snape smiled thinly, wishing he might vacate the scene without her noticing.

"Last I studied French was in Muggle school, when my father insisted on me having a 'normal' education," Snape shrugged. "I don't think I remember its direct translation exactly. Something about so-so, I believe."

"Asi, asi!" Sprout laughed again. "I always thought that was so much fun to say when I went to Spain three years ago—in response to 'How are you, Pomona?', 'Asi, asi!'—when someone asks how far to the market, 'Asi, asi!'—when asked how much red sauce I like on my rice, 'Asi, asi!' Oh, but foreign languages are fun! We should teach more than just Latin here, do you not think?"

"I am certain if parents wanted their children to learn a foreign language," hazarded Snape in a cautious response to a matter he cared nothing about, "they should teach it at home, on their own time, as they so do for reading, writing, and basic arithmetic."

"Oh, certainly, I'd agree! But it's not the same as studying a _foreign language_ at _school_ with your _friends_, now is it? Now _that _sounds so much more romantic to the juvenile mind! Or even the older!" She giggled inanely. Snape watched with slight revulsion as he saw her rip a petal from the rose in her hand and absently place it in her mouth. She treated it like candy, he thought.

_Strange_, he mentally decided when the woman chewed the bit of flora and swallowed it quite robustly. Sprout saw his frown, or else anticipated his slight bewilderment and disgust, for she proceeded to explain.

"You know what the rose is directly related to, Severus? Apples and almonds! They're in the exact same family!" Without hesitation, Sprout served herself another petal. "You wouldn't want to do this with many of the plants in the greenhouse, I'll warrant you, but these are quite edible. Just an acquired taste."

"I . . . see . ." responded Severus, still facing revulsion. Without doubt, the woman would better herself by dining on the snails she discovered under the leaves of her rhododendrons. The French did that, he recalled.

Nevertheless continuing to munch on the delicacies, Pomona rambled on about roses, fertilizer, and who knows what else while Snape somewhat tuned out of the conversation. He had a hard time focusing on such drivel, and settled on mindlessly staring at what he supposed the end of a worm wiggling in the Herbology professor's basket. He found himself rudely drawn back into focus when his subconscious noted the queer declaration: "It rather reminds me of eating babies, really!"

Snape started, his shoulders jerking back and his chin lifting quickly enough to crack his neck. "What was that you said?"

"I said, eating these things rather reminds me of eating babies!" This wicked confession accompanied a mischievous grin that decidedly _did not_ suit the middle-aged woman. Now she dropped the base of the first flower and decapitated another from the bush at her side.

Snape raised a wary eyebrow. "Indeed?" he drawled, shocked that even the plump little lady might contain a much deeper, darker side than ever he saw.

"Yes, I know how terribly morbid that sounds!" exclaimed the woman, not knowing the half of it.

_I suppose my instincts did not lie about this woman_, Snape conceded, wanting very much to float away right then and there. He realized he should end this conversation soon anyways, he ought to go find Minerva. Maybe, on the way, he would drop a hint at Pomfrey's office for the mediwitch to get an evaluation of Sprout's sanity. He currently could not rid his mind of images from various Muggle B-Class black and white movies, comparing Pomona with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Or, with a desperate turn of mind, he theorized how much she looked like his mother, years ago, when the now-dead woman had proclaimed feeding poison to her husband with glee . . .

Severus shuddered, supposing that too far a stretch. After all, the little woman before his sight now had dropped her mildly insane features and resumed her ordinarily bright composure. "I hope you don't think that is too strange, but, I mean, when you look at them, don't they seem so innocent, so fresh, so pure? Yet they taste so delicious. It's a bit like cherishing the number 13, testing fate, you know? Like you hear people always say how evil people must eat babies and devour hamsters and boil children in oil, things like that? Destruction of the innocents?"

A twitch of Snape's lips hinted at a smile, but he did not oblige his countenance with such a distinctly blithe vision. "Some," he murmured, "Have accused me of such monstrosities myself."

"Well, I guess it amuses me to pretend to be evil once in a while. Not you-know-who evil, of course, though!" Apparently, the fluffy Hufflepuff still felt too insecure about Voldemort's death to say his name.

"Sometimes I sham the appearance myself," replied the deceased potions master, allowing himself a supercilious smirk. Unfortunately, Sprout took this for something more. Or maybe he just did it the wrong way.

"Stars and stripes!" cried the Herbology professor with an answering grin, "Severus Snape smiled upon me! But, my dear," she earnestly went on, "You look absolutely attractive when you condescend to such a _frivolity._" She referred to one of Snape's favorite phrases to describe the contrasting action to a scowl. Her menacing glare held as much humor as a snitch contains gold as she said this.

Snape stared grimly at her, then hastened to a different subject. "So," he declared, eager to turn the conversation off of himself, "Tell me more about roses and their tastes. I seem to recall reading a few medieval potions recipes which call for rose petals as a taste enhancer, or sometimes as a stabilizing agent. More often, rose hips, or the pith from rose hips are required, however, the latter more useful to modern potions. Mized with yeast and a half-boiled olive-oil base over a blue flame, the husks make a highly efficient skin cleaner." Not that he ever tried it, of course. His acne as a boy had wreaked havoc on his face, but ended as soon as his hormones settled in his sixth year. In his adulthood, his pores still leaked oil, though never did form pimples. They just made his hair atrocious. _One more benefit of my position is that I don't have to worry about that any longer_, he remembered idly.

"Well!" exclaimed Professor Sprout in a way that would make anyone wonder what dangerous creature had _Imperio_-ed her to speak about eating babies beforehand. "Well, you just told me quite a bit I myself didn't ever know," she laughed, her stout body shaking with the high-pitched peals. "But, I suppose, I might add that as a flavoring, the middle pink colored roses are the best. More poignant and refreshing, especially when it's fresh from the greenhouse. A rose from a dry climate never tastes quite as strong as a rose from a humid one. Back to the color, I know you would suppose that the deepest, darkest, reddest roses would have the most flavor, but they don't. I guess they put all their power into their color as opposed to flavor. I wrote my seventh-year thesis on that one," she proudly confirmed, smiling broadly. Snape hastened to think of more questions before she started talking about either him or eating babies again.

"Ever try rosehip tea?" the mortal queried before Snape could say anything.

_Well, this topic is safe as any _Snape decided mentally, stating aloud:"It used . . . to be quite a popular Muggle drink." Did Sprout have a point in reciting all this rigmarole? No, of course not, she always went on like this when she had a pair of unattended ears before her. He had successfully evaded her garrulous presence for so long that he almost forgot. "During the time of their great world wars. They would take the rose hips from the plants that grew in the hedgerows, dice them up, and brew them as tea. My mother used to make it, as well."

Merlin curse him! Why did his mind dwell on his mother so this morning? He had found exactly three parallels to remind him of her from the apparently unwitting Sprout! Maybe he felt the need for a motherly hand this morning. He had another reason that he might visit Pomfrey later, for a close to lethal dose of fuss.

"Oh, I can understand that perfectly!" gushed Sprout, unaware of any turmoil the potions master experienced in his brain. "Such a fine, delicate taste! My aunt Julia used to make her own special brew of it with mint and a few secret ingredients, it was absolutely divine!"

"I would not doubt that," replied Severus, looking for a way to escape this increasingly dull bout of chitchat. Sadly, his eyes alighted on the pots of heliotrope, and a despondent sigh, however small, escaped his lips.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Sprout unhappily. "You have no sense of smell nowadays, do you? Being dead and all. How thoughtless of me to bring these before you!"

He brushed off her apology with an graceful, gentile gesture. "No matter, I am used to being disregarded in that way." Snape tried not to inflict his voice with a stark amount of self-pity, but could not determine his attempt as altogether successful. Sprout's ears, as a result, grew distinctly pinker, more so than the rose petals she still compulsively poked between her withering lips. To cover her mortification, probably more severe a case than a staid Ravenclaw, Slytherin, or even Gryffindor might experience, Sprout hurriedly departed from her favorite topic of conversation, Herbology.

"I'd like you to talk to Paul sometime, Severus," Pomona spoke rather hurriedly.

"Paul?" A slight furrow signified Snape's perplexity.

"The ;'Fat Friar', as he is normally called," noted Sprout ruefully, as though she had some slight distaste for the name. Possibly, Snape realized, because of her own unexcused amount of bulk.

"Oh," replied Snape dryly, awkward in her discomfort. He could not forget that he might have ended up worse than the voluptuous gardener, remembering his father's tendency to obesity. Probably he only escaped due to his mother's slim-inclined genes and strict half-starvation regime that she enforced on both herself and her children. "What would I benefit from speaking to your house ghost?" he asked, after some thought.

"Not you, conceited stick!" exclaimed Sprout, in what anyone would describe a genial manner, but Snape noticed a certain tinge of jealous rage in the way she said 'stick'. It seems their thoughts dwelled in harmony. He saw the uselessness in retorting or protesting this, however, and responded accordingly.

"Then he? Is something the matter with him that I could possibly correct?"

Pomona seemed calmer. "He . . . he has been lacking his usual optimism and cheerfulness lately," lamented the woman, "And I scarce know why. He usually is quite open about things with me, and . . . oh, Severus! . . . do you know how long he has been here?"

Snape paused, reconstructing the ghost's image in his own immortal mind. "From the way he is dressed," he hypothesized, "Perhaps . . . the twelve hundreds? Thirteen?"

"I believe he died in 1109. One of the Cistercian monks."

_Quite a startling revelation, that_, Severus thought. "Is he the oldest of the ghosts, then?"

"You won't find an older one at Hogwarts, at least."

The potions master thought hard. "But what did he _do?_" he finally asked, concerned. "Why is he on earth if he's such a jolly, pious fellow? Why did he not want to accept going to paradise? He can't stay _here _forever, certainly!"

Pomona shook her head sadly. "He has never told me what he did to find himself haunting earth for so long, and I don't think he intends to. That's why I want you to help him, Severus."

Snape snorted. "Why me? Come now, admit it, why would he find appealing to the mercy of a young bastard like me, who has never treated him as any more than a stranger, more simple a matter than discussing his problems with you, his friend?"

A crestfallen look came over her face. "Well," she considered, "I suppose I think his problem has something to do with the afterlife, because he never talks about that one subject with me. But it's something I can see him seriously discussing with other ghosts. Now, as to you, I suppose it was just easier for me to ask you than any one of the other ghosts. I'm not so familiar with them as you. Besides, most of them look so much . . . well . . . better off dead that it's hard for me to accept the fact that they're still floating souls." Before Snape could question what exactly shemade of _him, _she fumed, "But please! You will do this, won't you?"

It could not hurt him. "May as well," he grumbled, agreeing.

"My thanks!" Pomona's eyes lit up with an almost divine purity. No real devils in this little angel, or so it seemed. Snape could almost disregard her 'eating babies' comment, but not quite. "You can just fall into conversation with him any old time . . . just rather soon, I expect. It is too important, I think, to be ignored for long."

She paused, at this point, to take part in eating a succession of rose petals to finish the flower. Snape saw a point to get his word in edgewise.

"By the way," he added silkily, "If I'm going to do this for you, I'd like a small favor in return."

Her mouth full, Sprout merely nodded quickly for him to get on with it.

"I'd like you," Snape requested, "to have a small talk with your Hufflepuffs. I fear that, after the events of last summer," (he specifically avoided saying anything about the Dark Lord, to avoid making her uncomfortable) "my Slytherins might be placed in a rather negative spotlight. This they desperately do not need at this point in time, and anything said at this point in their distress might easily set them alight, and not in a satisfying manner."

He swallowed. "The recapitulations might be interesting, but definitely could result in the destruction of the Slytherin house altogether. If everyone treats the Slytherins like the dirt they feel like right now, their collective personality will lash out at the rest. Troubles may arise that commonly do not, and, in all probability, will only get worse as time goes on. Already, I anticipate that because of some of my students' families and their past decisions, they may all be branded under one ugly title." He refrained from stating the exact term: Death Eaters.

"It is definitely bad now, I assume, even without having had a single class yet, and I know it cannot improve without active participation on everyone's behalf. Very soon, the hatred and fear may grow to the levels experienced six years ago when the Chamber was opened. This I want to prevent happening again, at least, while I can help it. The students of Slytherin do not need to be piled with loathing and the burdens of their mistakes. I doubt anyone will be willing to forgive more than your Hufflepuffs, and I believe the rest of the school will find it easier to do when they see one third of the perpetrators cease fire." Of course, he did not mention that the Gryffindors would probably not respond in a like manner, of course; they all had gigantic egos because so many heroes of the battle came from their house.

"So, Pomona, I merely ask that you demand a certain respect from your Hufflepuffs towards our diminishing numbers."

Sprout blinked at him. Oh, a more pitiable signification of puzzlement Snape could not think of! How infuriating to deal with a confounded Hufflepuff! But perhaps she merely weighed the responsibilities of the task he asked of her, for she responded rather reasonably.

"So, will you do your part? Will you demand the same respect for my house from yours? You said yourself that the Slytherins might lash out at everyone else if we pummel them too hard. Seems to me that's always been the case, even when we're too frightened to be openly hostile towards them. Will you continue your absolutely maddening bias towards the Slytherins, deducting no points at all from them while forcing such a great amount on the rest of us? I have yet to see you give a Slytherin detention in class, I declare!"

"Your argument is heard," Snape replied, bowing his head in some show of humility. "I admit, the Slytherins have always been a bit . . . overzealous. I will make no excuses for them, except that they are only sharing their more ambitious side to the world because they feel obligated to, being in the house known for ambition. I admit I almost never dock any points from them, but I feel justified for this because everyone else does that so willingly. As to detentions . . . well, I have always respected the Slytherin pride too much, I suppose. I give them detentions just as often, I suppose, but I always assign them in private. That I can change, I daresay."

Sprout nodded, a smile emerging. "Good. I'm glad you're being reasonable about it. I'll definitely make a point of talking with my badgers this afternoon."

"I offer my sincere gratitude," Snape nodded. He made a point of turning around to float away, happy that his conversation had concluded so well, but he found himself accosted by Neville Longbottom. Longbottom, with a pair of pruning shears.

"Professor!" exclaimed Neville, running to Sprout, "I'm finished with the fig trees, now, here are the cuttings. Will we be grafting them now or later?"

"Young man, how many times have I told you not to run with scissors?" shrieked Pomona like the boy's own grandmother. "You could gouge your eyes out like Oedipus Rex!"

Snape had to admit, the image of the rather clumsy young man catapulting down a hillside with the blades through his sockets would _not _look pleasing to anyone. He tried to escape again, but Pomona declared:

"Now you didn't even say hello to Professor Snape, what's wrong with your manners, child?"

Meekly, Neville turned to the vision of the departed potions master and murmured quickly, "Hello, Professor Snape."

"Hullo yourself, Neville." Snape, his purpose defeated, looked at the basket in the hand of Neville's that did not contain the shears. "Those cuttings seem quite satisfactory."

The boy deserved a compliment after so many years of scalding comments. He felt quite amused at the sight of the Gryffindor's surprise.

"I'm sure you are far better out here than in my dungeons blowing up all my cheap cauldrons," Severus explained. A sudden thought struck him--how sad a thing that a man must find a reason for geniality!

"Wow." Neville borrowed the ugliest American phrase in the history of the idiotic country. "You're in the best of moods."

Snape made no attempt to hide his smugness. "I don't have to worry about you and your messes any more, Longbottom."

He gave an uncompromising look at the herbology mistress, who had knelt to examine a flowerbed. "Stupid damn Gryffinweeds! I wish there was a way to destroy them all without having to pull them up!"

An idea came to Severus' mind with the burst of uncharacteristic language. "Sprout, have you read the Quibbler's article on training garden gnomes to pull weeds?" He neglected to mention saying whether _he _had or not!

"No truth in anything that Betram Merpe writes. She doesn't know a thing about gardening!" Sprout attacked a plant with her trowel viciously. _Maybe_, Snape thought, _if she expels her anger in gardening like this, perhaps that is the reason I have never seen her devilish side before. _

"Why do you say that?" Not that he felt any inclination to know.

"She's my sister in law."

" . . . Oh." He paused. "You're married? I didn't know that."

"No, my brother's wife."

"I see."

Neville timidly spoke up, as though uncertain if he could just enter the conversation or had to wait and raise his hand. "Well, I read that article. Luna Lovegood had a spare copy of the magazine with her and gave it to me on the train." Did he look rather pink this moment, or could Snape attribute that to a trick of the soft morning light?

"She used some of your methods for weeding, Professor Sprout, only under the guise of letting gnomes do the work. Not that you can expect to train any of the ones you catch, of course. Even _I _know that. The only way you get a tame garden gnome is if you raise them yourself." Neville looked less hesitant by now.

"You might inform Miss Lovegood of that inconsistency, Longbottom," Snape suggested. He knew Luna would welcome the Gryffindor's unexpected confrontation, whenever it happened.

"Oh! Right! I'll bet she'd like to know!" Neville grinned just a bit more than he ought to, and Snape could see the boy's smitten-ness in his eyes.

In the meantime, Pomona still ranted about her sister-in-law.

" . . . damn the woman! I thought someone was digging through my notes this summer when I went back to their place in Wales! I guess it was absurd to blame the houselves, wasn't it? Oh, that woman is going to pay! Neville, dear, hold on to this ruidirout worm, would you, I need to go get my shears."

At this point, she practically bounced away. Neville did not have the chance to remind her that _he _had a very fine instrument of the type she wanted in his hand.

"Oh well," Neville sighed, looking after his mistress, "I may as well do it." Saying such, he bent down to his knees and gave a brown wiggly thing a very precise snip. The two ends wriggled into the ground instantly. Looking fondly after the worm, Neville began a rant worthy of Hermione Granger.

"Rudirout worms need to be split in half or they get too big. Heard about one that got as long as a Norwegian Ridgeback once. But we gotta cut them in half; it's the only way they replicate, anyways. But they're really great for the soil, or we'd kill them instead of splitting them."

Snape recognized the nervousness in the boy's voice. Apparently the well-given compliment's effects had worn off by now.

"How is Luna, do you know?" Snape asked tediously, as though he cared nothing for Neville's answer. Again, he felt sadistic pleasure in seeing the boy's eyes light up with eagerness.

"Well," the boy suggested, "You'll have her for seventh year potions tomorrow, you can see then."

Snape almost laughed out loud. If the boy's . . . affection (dare he call it _love?_) made him speak audaciously to his most feared teacher, then Snape wished the best for him.

"You aren't afraid of me any more," the potions master observed.

Neville nodded. "Well . . . I'm no longer a student."

"I'll grant you as much." A lopsided grin emerged from beneath Snape's scowl, but only for a moment. Neville did not see it, however, for he ducked his head down as though he had something important to say.

"By the way, sir, I think you should know this, but don't say I did." He paused.

"Go on, "prompted Snape, curious.

"Well, sir . . . I bed in the Gryffindor tower with the students, you know. That's what apprentices do, of course."

" . . . Of course." Snape, at one time, had apprenticed himself to Slughorn, after all, and he knew very well what the process involved.

"Well," Neville hesitated, "So last night, in the common room, Harry and Hermione came in from somewhere, and Hermione started sobbing on the couch. She was telling Potter off for not bothering to help you as you lay dying. Bothering her all summer, she said. Harry doesn't care, told her she couldn't have helped if she tried. But she said she knew some sort of spell . . . don't remember what she called it . . . but she said she knew something that might have let you live. It might have saved you, she insisted. At least for a few minutes longer. But she was paralyzed from the shock, both she and Harry established that very firmly. She figured at the time that you weren't so bad as you seemed because of Voldemort's attack on you, and she was both kind of surprised at seeing you helpless there like that and because she was thinking real hard about the situation. Yet she realized she should have helped you even without bothering to think whether or not you were on our side or not. Really, she's really upset about it, sir."

Snape had already suspected as much from the bushy-haired know-it-all, but found himself nevertheless pleased to have it confirmed from an unbiased party.

"Thanks for telling me, Longbottom. I do appreciate it more than I can say." His face changed to reflect his sincerity.

Neville smiled in response. "Thanks to you, professor, for being less judgmental of me now that I'm out of your dungeons."

The pair shared a warming silence, just looking at each other. This ended only when they heard "Longbottom! Do you have those shears?"

"I think I'll be leaving now," muttered Snape in a hasty farewell, and headed towards the castle doors. Ten steps later, he realized he could just float through the great stone wall, and did so without further ado.

_Gryffinweeds are the equivalent of dandelions, haha. _


	16. Winky and the Noggin

**Chapter 16 **

Without any further mishap did Snape make his expedient way through the castle of Hogwarts. As he cautiously navigated down one staircase, the chimes for breakfast pealed in his ears. Students began to trickle towards the Great Hall from all directions, most bleary-eyed and yawing, their biological clocks out-of-sync with the school schedule.

A mild pang reached the head of Slytherin house for keeping his Snakes up so late with the Bonfire, but he realized that few would actually have slept if he had let them alone. At least he made them do something productive to their welfare with the early hours. Plus, of course, he ensured the most pleasant of nights for the first years who otherwise might have fared better thrown to the mercy of Fluffy. He preserved their sanctity (maybe the virginity of some unwilling to lose it!) and prevented them from facing victimization by the older classes. This deserved some amount of credit, certainly.

Any other doubts his mind quarantined ebbed completely when he saw the faces of his students as they emerged from their rooms for breakfast. They reflected a certain calmness and satisfaction absent on the visages of everyone else—the Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, and even the Hufflepuffs. Compare the look of a Russian plumber called unexpectedly upon a stage in order to perform, by memory, a twelve-page-long comedic skit that takes place in an Irish pub . . . him, versus a man of show-biz entering the same stage, but who prepared six months prior. This reflects the drastic difference between the students and their comrades. Snape concluded that it had to do with the Bonfire; rather, so he hoped.

At this point, he realized that he probably would not find McGonagall in her office at this hour of mortal feasting, so Snape turned his wonderful nose towards the great hall. Maybe he felt a bit more hungry after watching Sprout eating her roses, after all.

Interestingly enough, Snape did not see Minerva in the Great Hall. Normally, she sat in the center of the Head Table, of course, at least while she was Headmistress, but today her place had no setting and her chair had no prim derriere seated upon it. Snape glanced around, looking for someone to inform him why this occurred, when he recalled that he did not know who Minerva chose as successor to her position as Deputy Head position. He settled on asking Poppy Pomfrey for news.

The rather plump mediwitch, just barely taking a seat, dumped into a bowl her hasty breakfast of porridge and blueberries. She apparently had work to do in the infirmary, even the first day. With a flick of her wand, a second bowl showed before her, and she added an ample amount of maple syrup and brown sugar.

"Poppy?" Severus glided to her side, eyeing the kippers and toast that Filius Flitwick shoved onto his plate close by them. .

"Mhm?"

Pomfrey already had a spoon in her mouth, and raised her eyes from her meal when addressed. She started upon seeing the ghost. "Oh! Severus! Hullo, how are you this morning?"

This cordial greeting came only because, over the summer's course, Pomfrey had experienced several screaming fits of 'Why you, Severus?' / 'I could have saved you if I were there!' / 'How am I supposed to help you with your bonks on the head _now?_' (etc..) Thus, by now she had gotten the natural surprise and distress over the potions master's newer state out of her system. However, at this point, she did not like when he simply swooped over her shoulder without even the warning of his hair rustling.

"Don't come up on one like that!"

"I apologize," replied Severus, the third time that week accused for the same grievous offence.

Poppy continued to tuck food into her mouth.

"Anything . . . wrong?" she garbled between bites, mangling her words almost beyond all recognition.

"Where is Minerva?" queried the potions master.

"Mmph." Poppy raised her finger in a signal to wait, and swallowed her gruel hastily. Daintily, she wiped her mouth with a napkin, then stated, "Migraine. I told her to stay in the infirmary until I could get you to bring her the old potion she used to use."

The healer proceeded to stuff another bite into her mouth before adding, "I doubt she'll stay in bed if I'm not keeping her there, however."

"I need to talk to her," Snape hinted.

"By all means, go visit her. Anything to keep her off her feet." Poppy poured some cream on her oatmeal.

"I'll be up there in five minutes, myself, with her breakfast." She gestured to the second, hitherto untouched bowl of warm cereal, frowned at it, and threw a handful of currants on top of it from a nearby berry tray.

"I can take that," Snape offered, reaching forward and grasping the platter. Poppy forcibly stuck a spoon in the very center of the mush and mumbled something incoherent.

"For Merlin's sake, it won't do her any good if you choke to death before you return to her side," Severus smoothly warned, and left the Great Hall through the floor.

Oatmeal. Whatever Pomfrey thought, Minerva would not tolerate her choice of cuisine. Even when ill, the austere headmistress liked her eggs and rashers, usually the former poached and with toast. Snape could not bear such an unpalatable breakfast to the old woman without risking a severe scolding. He had to brave the house-elves and intrude on their privacy in the kitchens.

After literally sinking through two floors, Snape reached the great room of food preparation so domineered by house-elves galore. One hundred and twyenty of them, actually, scurried busily around the area about half the size of a Muggle cricket field. Stations resembling potion lab tables lined the walls, and one large rage stove lazed in the center. Snape knew from the bushy-head girl's hallowed book—_Hogwarts, a History_ of course—that this stove had never lacked for fuel, and burned all day and night since its first lighting without rest. Consequently, he desired no stray impulse to touch its sizzling surfaces, though they could not have harmed him in his disembodied state.

A random houself raced to his side, wiping its spindly fingers on a simple gingham cooking apron. Snape could scarce tell any of the elves apart, save Lucius' old elf Dobby and Barty Crouch's Winky, so he felt rather chagrined when the elf recognized him.

"Master Severus!"

"Good day," Snape warily replied, laying down the bowl of porridge.

"The name is Noggin, sir," the elf proclaimed, realizing that Snape did not know him. "Did you miss the breakfast at Eden sir?"

"Well," Snape attempted weakly, but stopped when the elf stuffed several evaporated biscuits into his hand.

"I may evaporbake that cereal for you, master Severus," insisted Noggin courteously.

"No, do not bother, I wouldn't like it anyways," Snape grimaced, placing the evaporated biscuits into a conveniently empty pocket of his garment. "Could you get me a plate of rashers, poached eggs, and toast?"

"Yes, Master Severus," exclaimed the cook elf eagerly, and raced of to gather. Snape observed as the elf meticulously lay four strips of bacon in a pan to fry, stuck two slices of Irish soda bread on the hearth to brown, and made the eggs to place on top of the toast. Once everything assembled on a plate, the little elf scurried over to a large brick oven that glowed a soft transparent green within itself.

"Wait," Snape called, "No need to evaporate it!"

The little elf turned around and blinked.

"It's for someone else, the headmistress."

At this point in time, a clatter of dishes erupted from the washing alcove, and Winky appeared amid a shower of dirty china from the Great Hall.

"Winky!" shrieked the dish-cleaning elf in dismay, "You's so clumsy!" But in a snap of her fingers, the stack resumed a state of wholeness, and she began to do her duties with them.

In the meantime, Winky looked at the ground in shame, and only raised her head again to see Snape. She hastened to his side.

Unfortunately, in her zeal to greet her favorite potions master, Winky catapulted into Niggin and Minerva's complete breakfast.

"Alas!" cried Noggin, but nevertheless began to clean the mess.

"Winky sorry," the female elf whined imploringly, "Winky only wish to ask Master Severus about visiting the grave of dear Dobby soon?" Her tender ears drooped, abashed, as Noggin hissed with disapproval of her question.

"Winky have no right to mourn over Dobby so. Dobby a _free _houself, him no longer employed to his master Luciius. Him die in _disgrace_. He _like _people to give him clothes."

"Dobby brave, he give life to save wonderful Harry Potter!" cried Winky in fury. "He save other good people, too! Noggin must not insult Dobby!"

"Why should Noggin respect _free _house elf," countered Noggin, "only loved by Winky of the evil Master Crouch? Winky, who goes to butterbeer when she is sad, Winky, who cries—"

The house elf's stream of antagonistic insults ebbed when Severus raised his ghostly hand in protest.

"Cease, Noggin. Dessist. You will win no commendation for abusing the ears of a loyal elf."

Noggin nodded and graciously stooped to pick from the floor the spilled food.

Severus found himself shocked—was the general consensus of Winky's reputation as bad as this? Had she earned the enmity of her fellow creatures along with their disgust? Always, Snape imagined houselves much more loving and compassionate beings than the current evidence proved. Could they really act so grudgingly, could they behave so irrationally to one of their own? Snape saw, now, that they could, without mercy. The idea saddened him. Of course he would only see the house-elves at their best, never in the midst of their spats. He had not their blood, and he contributed to the staff of Hogwarts, besides. The houselves dare not have their private affairs dragged before his eyes on a normal basis—this event occurred out of extraordinary coincidence.

"Winky." Severus painfully looked at the noble-meaning thing of only three feet high. "I realize how much grief this has hitherto caused you, but I am not the one indebted to the promise you wish me to value. The person you want to see is Luna Lovegood. I will be more than acquiescent in arranging your pilgrimage and assist you in carrying it out, but I will refuse to take sole responsibility for the girl's words."

Winky's nose moved up and down as she concentrated on the ghost of a potions master. Noggin, during this period, dashed up some more bacon and eggs for Minerva.

"I speak to Mistress Luna, then?" Winky bowed her head respectfully and with grace.

"Yes, but not for a few weeks. Let the school settle into routine, then a weekend in early October we shall all go to the site."

There, he said it—he fully intended to offer his condolences to the distraught elf by accompanying her on her vigil. She could ask no greater a gift than the presence of two humans (rather, one live human and one quite dead in his own way) whom she held in her great esteem as they paid their respects to her best friend. To their sort, the gesture would equivocate to a king deigning to visit the grave of a poor farm lad's deceased pet rabbit. (Not to say that a king should not commit such an act, this merely illustrates the rareness and magnamity of the deed).

Thus, Winky's eyes flamed with justifiable joy.

"You will come too? Oh good Master Severus! Beautiful Master Severus!"

Though Snape could not help but flinch at Winky's calling him 'beautiful', he smiled nevertheless. Thank goodness in his deceased state the tinge of color in his cheeks could be mistaken as a trick of the light!

Winky babbled on and on, and Snape settled into pensive woolgathering.

Snape could not tell what sort of good his soul's visitation might do Dobby, but, after all, from the magnificent tales of the Golden Trio, they never would have won the war without him. Apparently, he died rescuing them and others from Lucius' torture-chambers. _I might have survived if he had let Potter _alone, Snape thought ruefully, but shrugged the idea away by remembering that, in the case that he had survived, he would have lived only to see a world under the control of Voldemort.

"Master Severus, here I have the breakfast for our esteemed headmistress," suggested Noggin, a scowl fitting of the g'reasy git' himself upon the little being's face. Winky had stopped extolling her praises of the potions master and, ignoring Noggin, merely gazed at the ghost radiantly.

Severus gave a curt nod of thanks, then turned back to the female elf. "I suggest you visit Miss Lovegodd to plan," he hinted to the ecstatic Winky, though he could not think what the pair of females might find need to arrange prior to the visit of Dobby's grave. He felt it appropriate, nevertheless, to encourage some meeting between the two.

"Master Severus is great at ideas!" exclaimed Winky, and began to hop up and down with projected excitement.

"I should certainly hope so," Snape replied with a trace of arrogance usually foreign to his manner. Noggin, at this, stomped away with a disgusted sigh to clean the spicy fatty bits of bacon that sizzled in the pan still.

"Winky!" called a shrill voice from afar, and the female elf trotted to get more dishes from the Great Hall. Snape took his leave.

Ah well. Time to deal with Minerva in convalescence.

_I am aware that this is kinda getting to be a very slow story. I heartily apologize. I just want to be sure the stories of every character J.K. provided no hint of in the Epilogue get a tribute SOMEHOW. And yes, I even care about small characters like Winky. If there's any particular character you want to see what happens to after the war besides these I've already covered/am in the process of covering/will be covering:: Winky, Binns, McGonagall ,Luna, Neville, the Malfoys, Bloody Baron, Xenophilius, Albus Severus, Lily Jr., James Jr., Victorie Weasley, Teddy Lupin, the Potters, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, the Fat Friar, Hagrid, Filch, Aberforth, Umbrage, Pomfrey, Pince, Sprout, Flitwick, Trelawney, Rose, Percy, George, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Scorpius, and, of course, Snape. If you see someone you think important that I neglected to add to my outline, do not hesitate to let me know! That's what the reviews are for! Yay! _

_I hope my original characters, like Noggin, smattered here and there, aren't too bothersome or too uncanon. I'm trying to make them as convinceable as possible. Count on seeing a few more around overtime, but not to the excessive degree that can be found in my Trivial Delay series or anything. (Do not read those. I beg of you.)_


	17. SS, Saint or Scoundrel?

**Chapter 17 **

Minerva sat against the headboard of the bed, looking for all the world more imposing than she appeared when she posed at her own headmistress' desk. Yet Severus knew, behind her stern face and straight shoulders, she pained. Neither of her hands contained a book—impossible when truly at leisure—and her glasses settled anxiously on the side table. This, if nothing else, indicated something amiss. Minerva could not see two feet ahead of her without those glasses.

"Minerva." Snape knew the consequences of sneaking-up to a McGonagall under usual circumstances and wondered briefly how to make noise when approaching her in his present not-so-solid state. Damn, no, he should not think of living as a 'usual state' anymore; his present guise would suffice him for the next hundred years or more, so he should definitely begin to consider it his 'usual.'

"Severus? Good day." Listless, her voice sounded, as though quite bored. Snape knew better.

"There'll be naught a good day for me as long as I'm like this, Minerva, and you well know it. I'd say, though, that you weren't in the best of spirits though yourself." Hm. Some way to cheer up an ill friend. No matter, she would not take offense while weak as this.

"You're always so morbid, Severus."

With a shrug he well knew she probably could not make out with her impaired vision, he placed the dish of food on her knee.

"Poppy said to bring you some horrible gruel, all full of that wretched sweet maple syrup and brown sugar. Even currants. I went to the kitchens and made a switch, so make haste and tuck this away before she returns. It's your usual," he added as Minerva's hand tapped around blindly, searching for a fork. He thrust the utensil between her withered fingers.

"Right." Minerva knowingly wasted no time on pleasantries with Severus. They had no need; both understood that voiced thanks often discomfited the potions master.

"Do you know," Snape suddenly said, his mind pivoting off this idea, "Albus almost always told me 'please' and 'thank you' in private, even—or should I say _especially_—when he did not mean or want to be polite. Only in the most important of situations did he ever ignore his little rituals. Yet I feel you're the more grateful, though we habitually dispense with the exchange."

Minerva swallowed a lump of egg a bit more quickly than she liked, to reply with a half-choke, "He never understood the idea of gratitude. He was really quite . . . quite the egoist. Everything that happened was his fault—good or bad, he assumed the entire responsibility upon his own shoulders. And if his best attempts failed—still his blame. That is why, I think, he never could quite grasp humility, or true appreciation. He did not believe that anything good could happen to him without his having manipulated it."

A quick shudder passed through Severus. "I would hate that."

Both shared a demure silence, Minerva concluding it by taking her fork and stabbing—unintentionally—at her thigh.

"Gracious sakes alive!" she ejaculated, more in startlement than hurt. After all, even if she had not donned her thick dressing gown over her robes, Pomfrey always scourged up an extra blanket or two for the beds of the older infirmary occupants. Severus recalled having obtained this luxury when last he had dwelt in here, for reason he did not remember but thought at the time most trivial.

Snape could remember, though he rarely wanted to, from what came Minerva's last stay in here. No one witch or wizard concerned for the headmistress' health could discount four stunners in the chest at her age, after all. Afterwards, she suffered from frequent headaches like the one she currently experienced (though she seemed over the worst of it by now) that often induced severe vomiting and apathetic depression. For a year following her injury, Minerva had endured such on a bi-weekly basis, but, gradually, had worn away to the point where she no longer experienced them. Snape realized that this time followed at least two full years after her last symptomatic experience.

"Do you want your glasses?" he asked in almost a kind tone, but the older woman strongly shook her head.

"I'll end up spewing again if I try," she insisted and continued to devour her eggs and rashers with relish.

Snape settled in Pomfrey's conveniently near office chair, wondering mildly how Muggles would explain the physics of ghosts. Something to do with atoms and matter skewed beyond human perception, they might say. Absentmindedly, he allowed his transparent foot to trace an invisible circle on the floor. In a moment, he discovered himself facing the wall opposite Minerva's bed, and still turning. Pomfrey had one of those Muggle spinning-chairs. _Think of the devil and he'll show up beside you_, Snape remembered ruefully. Then he recalled the phrase coming from a Muggle book. Damn it all, he hated uncanny instances like this!

But Snape impulsively continued to propel the chair round and round. He became vaguely aware that, each time he saw Minerva's face, she seemed about half a centimeter further below his nose than before.

"What are you doing?"

Minerva stared at him, blinking furiously. Poor woman; she probably could barely see him in his pearly ghost form—his contrast against the chair contained no substance for remark!

" . . . Spinning." Snape saw he might have lied and saved his dignity from plummeting by one-half percent, but Minerva did not see the opportunity to jest about his childishness.

"I don't think I want to know any more," she sighed, rubbing her temple for not the first time in this interview.

Merlin. Even in death, and even without her glasses, she could perceive his fluctuating emotions, and occasional vulnerability. At least she respected it. Any resentment he harbored against her for her comment vanished completely when he noticed the headmistress put her hand to her mouth, her cheeks losing color. Hastily, he summoned a bedpan and accorded it to the emergency. Once Minerva had fully relieved herself, she smile grimly to accept the handkerchief proffered by her ghostly coworker.

"You're a useful man, Severus," she murmured quietly, not adding 'even dead' to her pronouncement, though Snape knew it likely resounded in her mind.

"That's all I ever have been," her remarked acrimoniously, then sighed. "Useful. Either that or _hated _for my irritability and anti-social tendencies."

"Severus . . ." Minerva chimed wearily, almost in protest, but she said no more. The potions master drew in his breath carefully.

"I apologize for that outburst. You are ill, and did not deserve it."

"As you so often say yourself, 'no matter'," Minerva responded, "Though I'm sure half the time you do not mean it."

Snape rationed himself one quarter of a smile. Pity, that Minerva probably did not see it.

"But," Minerva continued, "Severus, though I hate to impose upon you after all this, I have a favor to ask. Now, I don't want you to get the impression that--"

"—What is it? Just tell me and let me decide myself the impression that I should get."

McGonagall closed her eyes. "Doubtless you have yet noticed that I have not chosen a deputy head position yet," she began with hesitance.

"Yes," prompted the potions master, his pupils focused on the speaker attentively.

"Well . . . no one would agree to it. I'd ask Flitwick, but he's getting a bit dowdy lately, if you catch my drift."

A memory of Flitwick running about Hogwarts in a towel not two days before, looking for 'the gatekeeper', marked Snape's mind.

"Mhm."

"And Pomona . . . well, let us say that she's got enough on her hands right now."

After this morning's eventualities, Snape certainly had to agree!

"And obviously Percy is not old enough," he stated.

"Of course. Besides, it is his first year of teaching only—I believe it's a stretch having him for a house head, let alone anything else more intensive. But then . . ."

She broke off, allowing her eyes to drift to Severus' languid form. The dead potions master snorted, then burst out in vinegar laughter, tart as fresh sorrel.

"My _dear _Minerva, I pray you do not mean what I suspect you do. I'm dead for Merlin's sake! Absolutely, inexorably, certainly, positively _dead!_ I'm not someone like Bella Monticello of our history books, the girl who jumped off the Astronomy Towers and miraculously survived but still believing the worst had occurred! I'm a specter! The mere imprint of a departed soul cast from the continuity of even the earth's gravitational pull—"

"--Gravity is a Muggle myth, I would have thought you would know that."

"No matter, they regard it as truth. My father was one of _them_, though I hate to admit it. In either case, I am no longer even under its influence—a portrait would be better served as headmaster! At least it can be shut up after a few years when people believe its period of dominance has run its course! Once I, an indestructible being who still can control myself by my will, take power of Hogwarts, might I not abuse such a stronghold as Albus did?"

He paused. McGonagall tolerantly gazing at him. A slight reflection of pain crossed her features.

"Let us not speak ill of the dead," she stated, but saw the inaptitude of the statement a second after her speaking.

Snape swallowed and closed his eyes to keep from voicing some flaring comment.

_Even now, people can't think of me as being dead. Is that a quality I like? They don't remember me with love, but they remember me. It's strange for them to accept that I'm no longer one of them, no longer belonging tied to this great rock we call Earth. I suppose this is evidence of my grandiosity and dominant personality—they couldn't care less about what I actually did. Serves to prove that people still judge books by their covers. Frankly, that statement is mundane for it is only of latter years that books ever got much of anything on their covers. But oh, they can accept that their precious _Dumbledore _is dead. Oh, but I misjudge Minerva probably, I have no doubt they had some sort of affair in their youth that probably never quite died . . . at least on her side . . . never knew with _him_, though. _

Minerva had not spoken in this brief interlude.

"Of course," he replied, hiding his resentment, and went on to declare: "You must be more ill than you thought. If I were living, I would call on the powers of my Christian namesake, St. Severus of Avranches, but I doubt that such a feat would work at this time."

"Was that an element of the potions you made for me back then?"

"Quite."

"Well! I never knew that!"

"Most people would not."

But the potions Master would not be deterred from the subject at hand.

"Still," he pursued, "though, are you merely offering this position as a sort of atonement, a consolation prize, a reward to services rendered, and as a mild reprise for the fact that you replaced me in the post? I swear, Voldemort has his influences that forced me to take the position. I did not jump in as a personal grievance to you at all."

"Severus, hush. I am entirely serious in my decision, and I have been thinking about It a long while. Longer than this headache has lasted, at any rate."

Snape continued his austere gaze. "Are you quite sure the thing is . . . legal? Not your headache, clearly, but this whole . . . mess?"

"I've checked up on it myself," responded the headmistress tiredly, "Now do you accept or don't you?"

Snape shrugged. "If you want me to . . ."

"No. That's not an answer." McGonagall's face showed her resolve, biting her lip with indignation. "I want to hear you say that _you _want to do this. Then, and only then, will I accept your agreement."

With a furious groan, Severus replied, "I want the post, Minerva. Even if it seems a bit strange and unheard of. Hopefully it will not become common practice. And I promise that, when your and my time is done, I shall choose a worthy successor. Not after a long while, either."

He figured that when Minerva came back to health, she would regret what she said now and render it invalid, so he decided he should simply make things easier for her by going along with her crazy ideas. Not as though Severus would technically mind being deputy headmaster, as that leant an air of prestige and dignity over the entire student body and not just Slytherin (though last year as headmaster had proved more people hated him than usual and he gained no more respect at all). His only real hesitance came from the fact that he would need to be closer to Minerva, and he really did not like being mothered over as women of her age were prone to do. Even though she was the stricter sort, McGonagall had a heart of silver.

Aside from that, he disliked intensely the idea of coming after her in line to rule Hogwarts—really a pretty bit of property there. Influencing the minds of the U.K.'s rising witches and wizards, feeding their spirits and encouraging their goals. Why, he could have his own Snape's Army if he wanted, though he knew how many should join beyond the bounds of Slytherin. _And I have plenty of loyalty from them as it is_, he thought grimly, tensing at the reminder of such responsibility. Though many liked to ignore the fact, Severus knew Dumbledore had gone a bit daft over wielding so much authority and preeminence for so long. Anyone could go crazy. Might he follow a similar route? Might he turn all of Wizarding England into an absolutist society which he domineered, practically what Dumbledore had done? Did Minerva even realize how many strings she held in her hand, or how many cords Snape had cut during his term in the office before? _A lot_, he almost smiled to himself. Did this onset of migrane—dormant for years now—finally erupt because of the stress of her position? _Frankly, I was glad to get the hell out of there_._ Now she expects me to go back in . . .? _

"I thank you, Severus," Minerva declared, pursing her lips.

_Of course, there's all the extra work that there is in being a deputy-what-have-you. Too bad, I thought this year I might actually get back to my work from years ago. _He would be responsible for the problems of students that were too unimportant to report to the Head and too global for just the House Heads to manage among themselves. Additionally, he needed all the extra time he could get because of his editorial work for the _Quibbler_, which surmounted to far more time-consuming than he or Luna had anticipated. The potions he wanted to work with consisted of various experiments that he had to abandon years ago after the opening of the Chamber of Secrets. Before Harry Potter had arrived at Hogwarts, Snape always had found it easier to allot time for his own personal use—something highly important for the scientific brewer. The calculation of methodical scheduling of ingredients and stirs took an unprecedented number of hours of absolutely no interruptions—a rare achievement in Hogwarts, even on weekends. Few charms professionals envied the potions professionals: charms and spells could come into existence even by the examination of Latin and experimenting with pronunciation, and, quite often, by happy accident. They did not require the careful planning, speculation, and execution so precise that the smallest error might cause immediate combustion of the brewer and his lab. Typically, he would begin planning out and contemplating his experiment, laying the foundation and basis for research, long before the actual mapping—enigmas he consumed in class, perplexing situations compromised as he lay in bed, and unanswered problems he had encountered in previous experiments gave him ideas for revolutionary configurations. The entire process, even for potions with short preparations and procedures, easily took the entire weekend. The excitement thrilled Snape in peace-time, when he had naught to fear but his dunderheads' bad grammatical errors, an undecipherable essay, or maybe the Weasley Twins. Though, when Voldemort's hand on them all began to clasp, Snape had no need for the unnecessary stress. Up until now, he eagerly had looked forward to the long weekends with full cabinets and eras of extra hours in which he could actually carry out such work for the first time in what seemed millennia. With the added burden of deputy headmaster, though, the dream shriveled.

Then Snape realized how badly he had fallen into his thoughts. Minerva's eyes lay closed, and her face had the appearance of sleep's peace. Snape thought it tactful for him to leave, but Minerva's thin voice accosted him.

"Severus? Are you leaving?"

"If you want me to, I shall," he responded, floating back.

"I've been meaning to ask you Severus . . . why are you actually here still? I know I asked you this a long time ago, but you did not give me a very satisfactory answer."

Snape, surprised, found nothing to say at first.

"If you do not want to explain," McGonagall prompted, "I will not take offense. But just admit the fact that you did not take the time to be completely honest before."

"I confess I did evade the question," Snape agreed, his tone terse. "The reason . . . the reason I came back was . . .well . . ." It took a great deal of strength for Severus to pronounce one word. " . . . Unrequited . . ."

He broke off, unable to bring himself to voice the word 'love.' It felt like poison to his tongue. True, he might have said 'affections' in its stead, but he realized he did not need to—McGongall bobbed her head in understanding.

"_Me amor non me amat,_" he insisted with a touch of garrulousness in Latin.

"I knew about that," Minerva replied slowly, "but I did not realize it was the reason . . . " Her voice held an expression of pious empathy—or, did he fancy it, of a martyr's commiseration?—that rarely blanketed her withering features. "Oh Severus," she breathed, "No one after Lily?"

Snape bit his tongue and nodded. "You wouldn't know what it was like," he stated flatly. He focused on the rim of a chair halfway across the room, straining to see every black grain in its wood, though he saw nothing of them. Images flashed across his mind, as every time someone pronounced the crystal name of Lily Evans.

_Watching her play with her older sister on the playground a few blocks from his house, and himself observing them from the growing shadows as evening cascaded into dark twilight. _

_Weekends in Hogsmede, their earlier years at Hogwarts, stuffing themselves with butterbeer and pumpkin pastries from Madame Puddifoots until he threw up on the roadside as they returned—she with her handkerchief to wipe his mouth afterwards. _

_Studying in the garden--potions, transfiguration, arithmancy, ancient runes, and more--out in the crisp autumn air, debating homework answers. _

_Walking together around the lake, those sometimes sparked with a few jeweled moments when she allowed their hands to entertwine. _

Snape blinked haughtily, not sure how his eyes had become so moist. Thank goodness Minerva remained blind as a bat without her glasses!

"I don't think I could," Minerva stated slowly, "I don't think I _ever _could."

A pain began to throb in Snape's stomach.

"By the way," he added almost brightly, attempting to sound nonchalant, the strain in his voice making him falter. "I'm thinking of starting a journalism club. Or something of that nature. The Hogwarts Herald has not been in print for many years now, since my days."

Minerva felt the mood change. "Certainly, there ought to be something like that here," she assented eagerly. Snape felt gratified she could adapt to the new subject so easily.

"Should it be a weekly event or more often than that?" He took refuge unexpectedly in such mundane details.

"Oh, more often. Perhaps thrice a week, for an hour or so. I believe the name of the people who print small newspapers and newsletters is somewhere in Zangteno's files."

"Monthly or biweekly editions, do you think?"

"I'd not set a definite minimum or maximum. Try for one in a fortnight, but if needs more work than that, I suppose you could go to a monthly issue."

"Far less stressful," Snape commented. The conversation came to a lull.

"Also, Minerva," Snape murmured, deciding now he might introduce the topic he originally meant to broach in this visit, "I would . . . No," he frowned. "I'll talk to you about it when you're feeling not quite so out of sorts."

"No, Severus, I may be out of sorts physically, but my mental capacity has not softened whatsoever."

_I beg to differ—you just offered a ghost a job as deputy headmaster! _Snape thought to himself, but kept quiet with that icy statement.

"Well," he teetered, "It's of grave importance, so I would prefer to discuss it later when I might have the whole of your complete attention."

"I'm better now, really."

Oh Merlin. He had peaked her interest with his unintentionally taunting remarks.

"Fine," he spat exasperatedly, moving on to declare his worries.

"Minerva, as you well know, when, years ago, Riddle used Ginny Weasley to open the Chamber, everyone gained an inordinate fear and hatred of the Slytherin house. This perverse viewpoint caused much antagonism and despise between the house and the rest of the world. Over time, as Voldemort" (Minerva involuntarily cringed. Perhaps Snape should bother Kingsly Shacklebolt about making some sort of enhanced proclamation that would make everyone want to spit at the Dark Lord's name as opposed to making them cower) "gained power over many men" (especially Slytherins, his preferred house) "the bias became more and more vengeful. Forgive me if I am sounding like a textbook, but, truly, all of this is quite pertinent."

"Of course," Minerva replied, looking aggrieved. "Go on."

"Simply, as you well aware, hatred for Slytherins and their families escalated strongly unto the day _he _fell. Now, I fear, this disdain has not ebbed, and the hatred remains intact. But this pointless revulsion can be more damaging than many would assume. In actuality, few of my students currently were in any way personally involved with the Death Eater regime—and of those who were, not many cared for it. But all of them will suffer, only because of their friends' families' foolish choices. I do not believe this is 'fair' as theterm goes. It is easy to blame a certain set of people for what happened, and, as always, the rest of the world recourses to us. I think, though, that eventually too much will be too much; people already can see the physical results of the damage of Voldemort and the war. Individually, last year I had to deal with seven girls on bulimic or anorexic strains, five male and female students who took to slashing their wrists (not in suicide attempt, I believe) and three students who seriously attempted suicide—you well know about the one who succeeded."

This illness made McGonagall soft, it seemed. Tears began to trickle from her sockets unheeded.

"As a whole," he went on, "My 7th year class, from when the scale against Slytherin had barely tipped, had a healthy number of students relatively equal to that of the other houses. The average number prevailed. Years later, the number of students began to dwindle slightly, then more dramatically, as students began to fear being sorted into Slytherin. Now, this year, we have _nine_."

He could not prevent the venom from showing in _that _comment! Oh, the bitterness, the poignancy! Nine new students had he, nine levels had Dante's hell, nine inversed and tripled the Devil's number, nine the day of the potion master's own birthday . . .

"Nine students," he persevered, "As opposed to forty. And next year, we shall get even less. Then, perhaps, the Slytherin house will begin to disappear altogether. It will become a memory that all will view with disgrace, with contempt, forever more. A house that began just as nobly as any of the others."

He drew his rolling-spinning chair closer to Minerva to emphasize the magnanimity of his point. Minerva stared at him warily, blinking. Then she grasped towards the side table for her glasses.

"You make decisively a vital point," she declared meekly. "But does it mean I shall have to forfeit the House Cup to Slytherin?"

"No, it would be better if we lost again this year. It would make the new attitude of the teachers more genuine and less contrived if we don't. Maybe, though, if we came close . . . but don't let Gryffindor win. I beg of you. I know your preference but . . . still . . ."

"I see," she smiled sadly. "As long as I don't have the satisfaction of seeing the Great Hall donned in green and silver, I'm happy. So, where do I sign my soul over to Lucifer?"

"This is no time to make jokes," scolded the inflamed potions master.

Minerva nodded in apology. "I'm sorry, one of the things Albus used to say quite often was that the only way to alleviate sadness was a joke. I guess I've taken hold of his habit, to not know when to shut up."

_I hope you do not take on any more dangerous habits he had, poor dear. Like having to get Hogwarts through civil war. Or being murdered by the man who treated you like a parent. _So Severus thought.

"I believe, though," Snape murmured aloud, "That we can start by setting an example of benediction and kindness. I agree to persuade my Snakes to be less antagonistic and patronizing to members of other houses, but their actions alone are not enough to dispel decades of disgrace. I intend for the whole school to learn respect for Slytherin, no matter what individual members might have done. In other words, I want to encourage the idea of letting bygones be bygones, and otherwise cure the school if this innate malice."

"You may want to speak to the other house heads, " suggested Minerva tensely. "I must admit, this has been on my brain also, Severus, though I could not see such a simple remedy as this working."

"It may be a while before the impact will resound enough to affect the entire country," Snape admitted, "But it is a start. I have some contacts with the media as well who could help us in this quest as well."

Minerva's glare turned more stony.

"Speaking of which . . . Severus, what on earth is between you and Lovegood? I have heard from the Baron about your . . . unique abilities . . . and I'm not sure I altogether approve of your dealings with the girl. She came to visit you for too often over the summer, and I don't understand why."

Severus could not hide a hint of amusement permeating his features. "Minerva, if you would allow me to explain, there is certainly reason enough for that. More like two reasons, actually. But I must swear you to secrecy if I tell. My reputation will be utterly decimated if word ever leaks out."

"What is it, Severus?"

She seemed quite prepared for the worst, indeed, but looked quite flabbergasted when Snape admitted the unbelievable truth.

"I am the new editor of the Quibbler."

"But _why?_" Minerva's astonishment made her jaw drop low and her eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling.

"The girl feels the duties it entails would be too much for her with her 7th year studies," Snape explained. "The second reason is—with her father's death, she lacks an adult confidant, someone with all of their brain in one piece, with whom to discuss things. Morality, philosophy, ethicality, politics—someone who can tell her what's what. She's had us under her thumb for years, did you know? This year you'll see a change in her, and that change is a result from some of our discussions over the past year. I only hope she can learn from my mistakes and be a happier person for them."

Minerva shook her head. "So there's nothing beyond that between you two."

"Absolutely not! She's practically going out with Neville Longbottom" Snape felt rather appalled that McGonagall dared to lack trust in him. Did he not prove worthy to the cause of the Order to the end? Did she ever hear a single report from a student that he had laid hands on them when he was alive? It surprised him to see how his hands shook even now at the idea that a person so close to him could doubt his honesty at the drop of a hat. "Not as though an old decrepit fag like myself could blind her from _that _shining Gryffindor! But I swear, Minerva, there's nothing of the sort that—"

"—Oh, Severus, I believe you, do not trouble yourself!" Minerva's sternness instantly evaporated with a laugh. Then, with rather a movement startling from an older woman like herself, she snatched up a copy of the Daily Prophet from that morning.

"Now that _that's _cleared up," she exclaimed eagerly, "Here's an article you would enjoy, by the way."

With a flutter of his puzzled eyes, Snape took the paper from her outstretched hand and scanned the first page marked with a crease. His phantasmal eyes widened as he determined the headline.

_Severus Snape—Saint or Scoundrel? _

"By Merlin!" he almost spluttered with a choke. Minerva stifled a laugh, just barely unsuccessful in the endeavor. Although his reason signaled him to throw the paper down in indignation, Snape's hands refused to execute the action and cooperate. His eyes objected to averting as well, and thus could not cease in their gaze at the black on yellow. His mind cajoled, rebelled, adamantly disdained his body's impulses, and his mood grew more putrid as he read.

_Years ago, the stone-faced Severus Snape took his place in Hogwarts as successor potions master to Hoarace Slughorn. At first, a surprise to those who remembered him from school only as a spiteful, vicious fellow with greasy hair and a humongous nose, this cynical and tactless man proved one of the most thorough and ingenuous teachers of potions that Hogwarts ever had. But what lay beyond the façade of wit and snark? What did he hide behind that ever-present snarl? That quest, my dear readers, is what I have struggled with for the past week of in-depth research. _

_Snape's childhood can safely be called absolutely and utterly tragic. "Few people" lamented his neighbor Mrs. Gangsley of Spinner's End, "Have experienced such a level of hell in their childhood homes." She went on to reveal, shedding tears of pity like rain, how often nights she and her husband Hubert would listen to the fearful racket coming from the house next door, how Mr. Tobias always was "shouting his head off at his wife for the smallest things. And that was when sober too. When he wasn't . . . let me just say that our only reassurance that he hadn't murdered her [Mrs. Snape yet was the fact that she was screaming to high heaven every minute he did his . . . stuff with her." Mrs. Gangsley shivered and cowered in reminiscing the terror, so with such a treacherous home life, it is no wonder that Snape's adult life remained with an insatiable temper and sullen demeanor. He inherited it from his father, it seems. _

_But there was a ray of sunshine even in the extremely frigid childhood of Severus. Lily Evans, a Muggle-born red-head from the satisfied middle-class district just streets away from the relative despair and grime of Spinner's End, was his friend all through their youth. Born to Celeste and Martin Evans, Lily and her older sister Petunia somehow found themselves the pretty playmates of the neglected child, sometimes bringing him home for dinner or even building a tent for 'camping' in their backyard and inviting him to stay the night. _

_"Lily," Petunia Dursley nee Evans confides, "Adored that awful child. Of course, I didn't understand _why_, back then, but he certainly made some awful things happen. I never could understand why she liked to associate herself with such . . . scum." But, she added to this statement, "But he was in love with her. Of course, anyone in his position would be. At least it wasn't me." Is this another case of Beauty and the beast? _

_The illustrious Harry Potter, son to aforementioned Lily Evans nee Potter, reports, "Before he died, he imparted some of his memories to me," he says, his voice choking with surprising sentimentality, "And from them I learned the real story, through his eyes. He was a real martyr, Merlin bless him!, and he died for our cause, on our side. He was one of the most courageous, forthright, and admirable men I ever knew, besides Dumbledore of course. I never felt truly hateful towards him even though he was sometimes a [censored teacher, assigning extra homework, grading our essays hard, and sometimes making me feel bad when I didn't read my homework. But in the long run, he wasn't so bad at all. He was just lonely, I think. In some ways, I think he's better off dead," he adds a bit sadly, "He'll be better off where he is now." _

_Where _is _he now, ladies and gentlemen? Where is the great crusader who bathes in the esteem of even Harry Potter? _

_From what I hear, his ghost has resided in Hogwarts for the course of the summer, secluding himself in his rooms for weeks on end, who knows what running through his mind. _

_"I'm stone dead" read my reply when I wrote to his ghost at Hogwarts, "And don't you forget it!" Oh, but I sensed a smile behind his words. The way he penned it might as well have been concluded with one of those ridiculous :) signs that Muggles tend to use on their ineerternet. Oh, poor Severus, too weary of human life to even respond to a famed journalist's request to interview! _

_"It must have been hard for him," notes Filius Flitwick, fellow teacher at Hogwarts. "He was originally a Death Eater because of some bad acquaintances in his youth, but he came back to our side very quickly. He's been Dumbledore's man through-and-through ever since. Dumbledore felt for him like a prodigal son, but the poor boy would have none of it. He had abandoned all hope for love long ago when Lily Evans became a Potter, and he never quite could move on." _

_"Even one without an inner eye could tell," commented Sylbil Trelawney, eager to discuss her departed friend, "that Sevnerus lived to see Harry's eyes every day, those the child inherited from Lily. Some days he would just stare at the boy from afar, unable to break his gaze and sometimes a few tears managed to slip down his face. Oh, the stars never proved for him anything but unrequited love." _

_"He had to kill Dumbledore. It was the only way," Flitwick added thoughtfully in our chat. "They had arranged it beforehand. His memories, imparted to Harry, have been examined by Ministry officials and so Snape's name is cleared." _

_Indeed, the man we all thought one of England's worst villains has been listed among the few who died with honor. To hear the story from his own lips, you might want to pay his ghost a visit in the dungeons of Hogwarts. He might give you a sarcastic remark or a supercilious sneer, but he'll enjoy someone's appreciation nevertheless _

_Compiled and written by Rita Skeeter _

"Confound it!"

Finally, his fingers lost their grasp on the paper, and it fell to the ground with a rather unsatisfying rustling noise. He picked them up again, wadded the paper up, and threw it again.

"Horrible! Just disgusting! Revolting! Damn! Blast! Wretched woman! _Femme fatale! Mon dieu! Elle damno! O la perra!_"

"Severus, now you have gotten to cursing in three different languages besides English in a row, I suggest you calm down."

"Curse her!" shrieked Snape in perfect English. "I never thought if I never replied she would still . . . fuck!" he ranted, soon loosing all capability of speaking rationally and breaking off his voice. "It never occurred to me that she might have such gall . . ."

"You should have realized it before now! Don't tell me she never called you for an interview before!"

"No, rather."

"Then consider yourself lucky. The only way to get past her is to say 'no comment'—even as you see in this case, no reply at all will not daunt her. Rather, it inflames her with more passion."

"Oh curses. Four decades of secrets strewn upon the grass for all to read. How humiliating." He stood, unhappy and determined. "I think I'll be leaving, Minerva. You are clearly feeling better if you have the energy to throw such obscenities at me with a laugh."

"Oh, Severus, I'm sorry. It was unnecessarily indecent of me," apologized Minerva profusely.

"Right." He glanced around, realizing suddenly that, all this time, Pomfrey had not made an appearance. "I wonder where Poppy could be. She said she would be just up. I'm surprised she didn't beat me to you, actually, she was bolting down her breakfast so." Snape gave a tiny sigh to relax his face muscles, then wrinkled his nose a few times. It refreshed him mildly.

"I shall promptly disappear, now," he declared again, and added with a great deal of dignity, "I need time to plot Skeeter's demise."

Saying such, Snape swept out of the hospital wing.

* * *

_Anyone recognize the 'looking for the gate-keeper' reference? Hope this chapter was halfway interesting. Actually, it's ok if you think it was boring. It was necessary, though. Hopefully the article made it more amusing. :) Look at that hideous little Muggle contraption that they use on their '_ineerternet_'. Haha._

_Please REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT MAKES MY DAY A LOT BETTER!!!!!!!!!!!_


	18. The Raven Himself Must Pacify

It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said.

_Too much work to do. Too many new ideas. Too little time. That is my excuse for lack of updating this. Please accept it. _

* * *

Chapter 18: The Raven Himself Must Pacify

_Yes, indeed, _Snape mused to himself devilishly, _Rita Skeeter certainly would pay._

A vision of Lady Macbeth making preparations for the death of Duncan captured Snape's memory, and he recalled the lines from the great Shakespearean tragedy of _Macbeth._

_"The raven himself is hoarse_( . . . )_ under my battlements. Come, you spirits__ that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,__ and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full__ of direst cruelty!" _

Here Snape smiled to himself, imagining a rotund apparition of blue fire seep into his phantasmal body, "_mak_(ing) _thick _(his)_ blood;__ Stop_(ping) _up the access and passage to remorse,__ that no compunctious visitings of nature_(might) _shake _(his) _fell purpose, nor keep peace between__ the effect and it!_"

He decided that the lines about woman's breasts and milk were quite irrelevant.

"( . . . ) _for gall, you murdering ministers,_" He decided this line applied only to the fact that Rita had killed his reputation as a stern individual, replacing his image with that of a martyr which Potter also tried to instate.  
"_Wherever in your sightless substances__ you wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,__ and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,__ that my keen knife see not the wound it makes,__ nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,__ to cry 'Hold, hold!'_"

True, though most of that only was emblematic of his mood rather than the actual actions he meant to produce, it still gave him a sense of completion, a realization that others had once felt as he felt now. He was not alone in his hatred of certain people, and he was not alone in the desire to murder. Just, in this case, he needed to carry out something worse than murder. Something that would completely devastate Rita Skeeter, yet something he could escape any consequences for doing . . .

"Severus!"

Accosted from his thoughts, Snape turned to see who had called. He recognized Pomfrey from her shrill voice and heavy clumping behind him. Oh, he saw, she had acquired the task of escorting a child with a nosebleed up to the infirmary. The woman looked rather tried, as well.

"What happened?" Snape queried easily, lolling towards her lazily. "I would have thought you up there badgering Minerva to eat her gruel and rest long ago."

"Oh, there was a mess in the Great Hall," Pomfrey lamented. "Some racket between students. Elmer here had a keich tin thrown at him, though he wasn't really part of the squall. No other injuries, thank Merlin, but I stayed because no one was able to establish order. Flitwick actually ended up making matters worse by getting himself involved, and made the argument far lengthier and hotter than it might have been. At least I had no foundation for my fears that I should be needed for more than one boy by the time _that _was resolved!"

Severus felt his innards tie into a very cliché knot.

"Who was it between, pray?"

"Harry Potter—though I'm sure you'll say 'thought so' to that—but before you ask the name of the Slytherin, it was actually Ronald Weasley."

A severe blink intimated Snape's astonishment. "The inseparable trio cracking? Where was Miss Granger in this?"

A look of pity vanquished any hint of forced joviality in Pomfrey's features. "Poor girl. She seemed so torn. In the argument, she took Harry's side, but she mainly was trying to keep the peace between her friends. That girl's going to have to choose someday—she can't have both Potter and Weasley trotting at her attendance forever."

Snape frowned.

"You may want to reset this young man's nose and cease jabbering," he reminded curtly, drawing in a breath and turning to go on his way.

"Oh, but Severus, I'd like to talk with you a bit when I'm done with Elmer, here, do you mind?"

"Not especially," the ghost conceded, remembering that his first class today took place after lunch. He wondered if Pomfrey would have anything else to say about the fight or if he would have to investigate on his own.

"I would like, however, to attend a few errands in the meantime," he called as Pomfrey began to move down the hall with Elmer. "I shall return in due time."

"Don't be stingy with it," Pomfrey replied absently, and soon the squashing of her sensible clogs faded to the same level as background radiation captured on a Geiger counter. Snape proceeded down to the general direction of the Great Hall.

………………………

"Ron, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have got so mad."

The words, though softly spoken and accompanied by a gentle touch on the shoulder, did not pacify the irate addressee. The glowering Weasley stood before Harry Potter, the former with eyes of distrust and stubborn anger, the latter with an expression of apology.

"Ron. He's sorry. He's saying that he's sorry." Hermione Granger grasped the arm of her now-official beaux with an encouraging but firm hand, as though trying to lead an obstinate horse to water. She had not even gotten to the point where she might make him drink. Ron, in adverse effect, wrinkled his nose in revulsion and spat on the floor.

"Ron!" scolded Hermione severely, but the young man could not take his daggerlike pupils off Harry.

"Some Gryffindor you turn out to be," Ronald grimaced, his mellow bovine eyes turned vengeful and furious—quite a curious affect on them. "Won't even join me in a little joke at the expense of the bloody Slytherins, for once. He's just sorry 'cause we got in trouble for it."

"Ron!" his girlfriend implored again, her voice rising.

"What are you, anyways?" the redhead questioned, stepping towards the ambivalent Harry with a directly threatening stare. "Aren't you . . . all uptight. Get off your high horse, Harry, you're just as good as any of us."

"This is _so _stupid!" cried Harry, growing defensive. "All I tell you is to knock off bashing the Avery twins and you just blow off at me, make it something worth yelling about!"

"Ron, I demand that you just be quiet and learn a little tolerance for once!" exclaimed Hermione desperately. "It's as important to me as S.P.E.W. used to be . . ."

"No. I don't think it is that important. And I won't be quiet," Ron insisted, taking more steps towards Harry. The Boy Who Lived nervously backed up until his heels touched the wall. Soon they stood, nose to nose, Ron's eyes just barely higher than Harry's own. His face glowed with an animosity normally foreign to his usually benign countenance. Harry felt more scared than he could ever remember. When his best friend turned upon him, something must be wrong.

Then Harry remembered last winter, when Ron had simply gone off for so long in a fit. Sure, they were in hiding and they were hard to find, but it could not have taken him _so long_ to reestablish contact if he knew the tactics of his friends and their probable locations. Maybe something had happened to Ron in the time while Ron was out of company. Maybe the old Ron had not returned from his lonely vigil. Maybe . . . maybe this Ron was more susceptible to anger, more likely to mistrust, more likely to blow up to those most near and dear to him. Maybe he was more likely to kill, too. At least, he certainly seemed like it now.

Little instances seemed to build in Harry's mind. Flashes of animated debate with Ron had revealed, since the Great Battle of Hogwarts last summer, that Ron was . . . a bit different. He had straight-out asked Hermione to get with him, which Harry knew she had been waiting for years for him to do. He_ was_ more irascible and likely to be cross-tempered, Harry remembered instances when Ron would just shut up and not say a word the rest of the afternoon, going to be alone until dinner, or not even emerging then. Harry and Hermione had spent the duration of such times together, but mostly in silence. Then there was the funeral. Harry remembered the days when Ronald had cried alone, not necessarily for the most important of things, but enough that every once in a while, Harry might find a tearstained pillow or have to face his friend with bleary red eyes. Not so since his time alone.

Instead, Harry found splashes here and there of a rather more X-rated substance than tears, and once discovered Ron 'jacking-off' in their shared bedroom in The Burrow. Harry had laughed it off, just advising his friend to not do it in _his _bed, but only his subconscious took note that Ron had never done such activities very often before the winter events.

All this registered in a few short seconds. The stream of recognition and understanding ceased as Harry felt a cold wand tip beneath his chin.

"Ron!" screamed Hermione. "You're mad! What do you think you're doing! I can't believe you'd do this to-"

Her shouts were cut off with an annoyed _"Stupefy" _on the part of her boyfriend. Hermione's form landed, with a dull thud, on the ground.

"Ron." Harry's voice sounded strange, as though he had a German accent or something of that nature. "You just stunned your girlfriend."

"I know. She'll forgive me. She loves me. Unlike you!" Ron's voice constricted noticeably, and his eyes threatened to overflow, but only for an instant.

Harry gulped. Now was not the time for sarcasm, it was time for peace and reconciliation. How to do this, when his friend was revealing that he had turned stark raving mad? And when said friend had the upper hand in a wand-to-wand confrontational situation?

"I'm beginning to see you for the first time," Harry said. _Oh fuck. Not the wisest choice of words. _

"I saw you for the first time last winter," Ron replied, as sane as anyone could please, but his eyes testified otherwise. "I just realized what you were. Trying to get both my sister and my girl. I know what you two did over the summer when I went and left you two alone. I have eyes all over my house. Fred told me about what you and her were doing those lovely summer nights that I went to my room."

Harry's eyebrows shot up high enough to strain the muscles in his face. "Ron. Fred is dead. Remember? He died, right before us. He died for the side of the good."

"He didn't die. He just fell asleep. George agrees with me. We still see him around."

Harry felt extremely worried at this revelation. The fact that George still 'saw' Fred and still 'talked' to Fred all the time was an open secret in the Weasley family. Arthur wanted to take George to 'one of those Muggle therapists', but Molly would never hear of it, since she was certain Arthur just wanted to do so in order to establish a contact with the Muggle world, with no care whatsoever to her son's welfare. Their marriage had suffered a dent since Fred's death, and both adults seemed a great deal more inclined to be angry and yell at each other. Even Percy's return had caused little but a short-lived ripple of joy to them. Though they tried their best to be supporting to all six of their remaining children, and Harry and Hermione to boot (the soon-to-be in-laws, as everyone assumed the young wizard and witch to be) the strain was showing, finally, in both Molly's loss of cooking creativity and Arthur's increased time at his Ministry office.

All this, however, was neither here nor there, except that Harry became more afraid. If two brothers of the Weasley family hand turned insane from the death of another, what would that do for Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? The entire family was falling apart. This made Harry very sad indeed.

He could worry about this more later, he decided. What Harry needed to do now was concentrate on was distracting Ron, who seemed on the verge of killing his best friend. Harry was not especially looking forward to dying at this point in time, and really had a hankering for wanting to marry Ron's little sister, so he tried to figure out what he should say. He really hoped that someone, maybe a _teacher_, would show up rather soon to save him, take the thinking from being his own burden.

"Fred is a liar. You know, he always jokes and stuff. You can't take anything he says seriously."

"When he tells George something like about this, he's always serious," Ron fiercely responded, then, suddenly, the tears erupted, saltine lava from identical spherical volcanoes. He managed to keep his wand steady, though Harry could feel the vibrations from his shaking body through the wood.

"Why did you do that to her, Harry? Why? I thought I was your best friend. And you knew I loved her. Why did you do such a thing to her, when you knew very well she never loved you! She's loved me for years! Years! And just because I was too stupid to do anything about it until this last year, you take advantage of my absence and her loveliness to . . . to . . ."

Ron's voice now trembled with rage. He spluttered, trying to search for a word.

A cold body suddenly forced its way between the boys.

"Tut tut," a silken voice declared, "So the golden trio has finally come to its demise."

……………………

Snape surveyed the situation he discovered in the anteroom to the Great Hall. One: Hermione Granger on the floor, apparently knocked out or petrified by someone. Two: Ronald Weasley with his wand to the throat of Harry Potter.

Should he advance, or just watch? From his position somewhat above them, Snape decided he was close enough for the moment. He wanted to hear the red-head's dialogue to Harry un-abetted and with the stark truth from the boy's point of view.

Finally, though, he determined that he had heard enough. He had been well-versed in the subject of recognizing when an insane person was taking a dangerous turn, and knew the precise moment he ought to intervene.

"Like the Order of the Phoenix," he continued, "such things must fade as wartime escapes us. Boys, I demand that you separate yourselves by a distance of five feet."

This clearly intimated that Ron _ought _to move, but the boy was not about to take orders at this moment.

"Leave off, bloody bastard," the youngest male Weasley muttered, but in an instant found himself a foot above the ground, choking and turning a shade of deep beet.

"You will learn to control your mouth when in the presence of the dead, Mr. Weasley," Snape scolded. "And especially in the presence of a woman."

Snape pointed his dead wand's spirit at Hermione. "What spell was placed on her, Potter?"

…………………

Harry had wished a teacher would show up, _but not this one! _

"Why don't you figure it out yourself, if you're so smart?" he parried, not very wisely.

"I just save your bloody arse and you have the nerve to insult me? It does not matter to me; I can check just as you say. It just goes to show your sense of dignity and decorum is non-existent, Potter." Snape did not seem overly angry. The simple truth of the statement stung Harry just as much, and maybe more, than any sacrilegious amount of sarcasm inflicted on a sentence.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to say that. It's just a stupefy, professor," Harry bumbled, wondering when he would learn the time and place to hold his tongue.

"Thank you."

The two words were ones that Harry had never expected to hear from the potions master, especially just casually as in this instance.

A snort of amusement emitted from the ghost's vocal chords, or so Harry supposed. It might just have been his imagination, however.

………………

What to do with the raving Weasley? Snape, truth be told, had little idea. He certainly did not intend to bother Minerva . . . well, and he had no one besides her to share this burden. He was second in command now, as of their last conversation. Oh, Merlin.

His mind flew in the composition of a letter he would be writing in a very short time.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, _

_I'm sorry, but it appears that your son, Ronald Bilius Weasley, has attacked his friend, Harry Potter, and, based upon this incident, it has been proved that the strain of the war, his older brother's death, and other possible factors have disturbed him mentally. We are sending him home as soon as possible, so that he might begin a swift recovery. This is not a notice of expellation, rather, it is indicative that we would prefer your son to study here as a perfectly sane individual. Do not send him back until a mediwitch confirms his complete regaining of his senses. _

_Sincerely, _

_Severus Snape, Deputy-Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry _

Oh! His long title reminded him. Minerva used to have that position, but now Severus did. Percy Weasley was a teacher here in her old post at Transfiguration. Now, where was the dreadful boy when one needed him?

"Ronald Weasley."

Snape stared at the face of the young man, then hastily waved his wand at Hermione, wordlessly reversing the _Stupefy. _Harry raced over to her, assisting her in rising.

"What's going on?" she breathed. "Harry . . . what is Snape doing with Ron like that?"

Snape stared into the Weasley's dark chocolate eyes, letting his mind seep into the boy's brain. Maybe he could incorporate a small amount of order, rearrange some things . . .

………………

Harry gazed where Hermione looked, Snape holding her lover in his arms, a few feet above the ground now, the older man focused intently on Ron's dilating pupils.

Time passed. Then, Snape suddenly lowered Ron gently to the ground. "There's a good deal more disrupted in here than I supposed at first," he murmured almost sadly. "I must take him to the infirmary. I may need to have conferences with you both later, Miss Granger and Mr. Potter. You two head to your day's classes, I'm sure you're quite late at this point."

Hermione and Harry merely looked at each other.

"Do not delay, or you will be marked down for playing hooky. I personally shall look forward to striking your names off the attendance lists."

"What about Ronald?" Hermione voiced.

"I shall be taking care of Mr. Weasley. Now please leave for class!"

Harry and Hermione could not keep from looking at each other in surprise and alarm, though they gathered up their bookbags, which had been displaced in the entire confrontation, and left the scene. As they scurried out of the antechamber, Hermione took notice of something rather important.

"Notice that he treated us as though we were just any old students? Not like we were the particular bane of his life? It's amazing, really, what some things can do to people."

"Yeah," scoffed Harry, though in all seriousness, "Things like death."

_

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_

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	19. Two Lesbians and a Dumb Ron

_It sucks that I have to have a disclaimer. Ok. I don't own Harry Potter. I'm not j.k. (just kidding) about the fact that I'm not J.K. Rowling. I am not affiliated with Warner Bros. nor do I make any claim to be. Fan writing FAN fiction. Enough said._

_Uh . . . no comments today. Enjoy! _

* * *

**Chapter 19 **

Thus dragging Ronald Weasley by the cuff, Severus entered the infirmary. Grudgingly, the dire potions master had to admit, plotting Skeeter's demise could wait—this matter pressed much more firmly.

As he stopped in the infirmary's door, Severus felt an eerie silence, unnatural and disconcerting, though ever once in a while broken by a noise much like a rubber-soled shoe on linoleum . . . or, at a stretch, the smacking of salivating lips.

"Pomfrey!" he bellowed urgently into the still chambers, angrily yanking Ronald along behind him. He took note of Minerva's now-empty bed, and heartily wished Pomfrey had been more discerning before letting the perhaps afflicted McGonagall from bed rest.

"Coming, Severus!" So, the little woman emerged from her office, bustling into the open patients' wing. Her hand touched her collar and prim hair, to purportedly tidy it, as though Severus had disturbed her from a very enthusiastic necking session. Upon her seeing Ron, though, she stopped abruptly in shock.

"Gracious!" Her voice carried in echoes, bouncing off the buttresses and high ceiling of the place. A hand flew to cover her gaping mouth. "What_ever_ happened to Mr. Weasley?"

Snape glanced at the teenager's face, deciding that perhaps the visage was surprisingly more than a bit disturbing. Ron's nose scrunched obscenely, vulgar and defensive, just waiting to scream insult upon the first eye to light upon it. His teeth showed as they fiercely clamped upon his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood from the moist red flesh. The skin of his face flossed with sweaty droplets and—Snape ventured to surmise—tears. Hungry, depraved eyes shone on Pomfrey as though her chub consisted of not carbon matter, but chocolate. The apparition was too strange and revolting to see.

"Someone call a doctor," Snape declared, making a quotation from about a thousand Muggle movies in that one line.

"Doctor?" Pomfrey evidentially knew scarce little about the Muggle version of healers.

Ron, at this point, made a movement to wriggle away from Snape's phantasmal grasp. His eyes shone with the light of an animal, fearsome yet with fear, like the fox cornered by hounds. Just as quickly, Snape hit Ron with an unspoken _Stupefy!_ and the boy fell limp in his arms. A chair quickly came when _accio_ed by Pomfrey, and they placed Ron upon it.

"Never mind," Snape replied to Pomfrey's earlier comment, as though nothing had occurred. "Merlin, who knew such a beast could live in that garish young face?"

"It's not as though anything _but _a beast lived in yours!" A glib voice previously unheard in this tale floated from Pomfrey's office. This was followed by the dainty step and high-raised chin of Madame Pince, the Hogwarts librarian. One fragile hand clasped a small blue vial of what Severus assumed was potion, and the other patted at her elaborate day-to-day coiffure. However, a wisp remained displaced from her immaculate do, and her neck was a bit red and splotched. With disgust, Snape realized why it had been so silent in the hospital wing as he bore his entrance: the smacking noises did _not _come from a pair of obnoxious shoes, not even Poppy's brogues.

"Pince." Snape stared coldly into the fierce face and eyes of the librarian in almost stark reprieve. He never had 'got on' with the pasty librarian, who reminded him of Miss Havisham from that Dickens book. Her gray hair, 18th-century apparel, and wizened gaze simply made him perturbed. Snape wondered, for not the first time, her age. She had not worked at Hogwarts in his day, but come amid the very brief period of time that Severus spent before arriving to apprentice under Slughorn and Dumbledore's watchful eye.

"I found my potion, Pomfrey, and I shall be leaving now," Pince sniffed crisply, "But only if there's nothing I can do to help with . . . this young man." She examined Ron with distaste.

Wrinkling his nose in an even more terrible emulation of his captive student, Snape growled, "I doubt there is anything to be done that a capable mediwitch and _ex_-deatheater could not achieve, surely," Snape coldly commented, stressing the 'ex' part strongly. When the pair of them encountered, Pince rarely spoke to him, but in the rare instances that they did exchange conversation, she almost never had anything nicer than to debate whatever he said. A more contrary person he never met. Her favorite barb, though, was to remind him that he was, in essence, a violator of the law, and almost never did she forget to bring it into speech.

"I see I am not wanted," the librarian bristled, her free hand contracting and contorting with suppressed anger, "and shall make no more effort to remain hence, even while just recently I _published _a treatise on psychiatric disorders and could _possibly _be more of a help than a man who actually _was _afflicted with one!"

"Irma! Now really . . ." Poppy exclaimed, but looked a bit deflated. "Wherever did you get the idea that Severus had any sort of-"

"I've seen his file," fumed Pince, "And am quite . . . _quite _shocked at some of the evidences upon it." She stared at Poppy furiously. "Some things you _might _have informed me of include the fact that he had a bulimic strait for three of his seven years attending this school! Do you think that sort of person is fit for assisting in a hospital wing? And all of those dates marked 'assorted small injuries', eh? How did he get such 'small injuries', doubtless doing a Potter and sneaking about after curfew, am I right? And that instance with 'severe shock and emotional trauma after suffering Crucio curses for hours'?"

Oh. Hell. Pomfrey had actually written down about his foolish eating disorder in his middle years, made a record of it?

Damn. Those perpetual visits to the infirmary came only when the Marauders had been especially brutal. He never went about tempting fate except when ordered to by Lucius or the entourage of other Death Eaters. Well, also excepting the one instance when Potter had to save him . . .

Blast. Pomfrey ought not have written about the results of his death eater meetings, no matter what the damage.

Meanwhile, Pince screamed on in the background. "You had proof of his guilt of being a death eater, yet never bothered to show Dumbledore, much less inform _me_? I am in absolute utter _shock!_"

Snape could see this easily turning into a spat between lovers. Pince was not the sort to go easily, and though Pomfrey might be strong in her own right, Pince had a way of manipulation that only Severus himself could counter. So, to save the women from potentially losing some amount of trust in each other (though he had no idea why he should try to preserve this relationship that he knew nothing about until just minutes before, and only from inference at that!) he diverted attention from Pomfrey unto himself.

"My dear Irma," he instituted, in his most oily and sarcastic of manners, "Such matters would not affect me at present, in any case. Nowadays, I find my only problems have to do with an occasional bout of manic depression and _intrusions made by nosy women into my personal life!_"

The librarian adjusted her pince-nez (1) and stared at Severus intently. She began, very slowly and deliberately, to laugh.

"I assume you refer to that article by Rita Skeeter, the ignorant spinster. I personally believe the only true words in that rubbish came from Trelawney. Who, with her very sentimental attachment to you, would very likely have described you in such a manner as depicted. Otherwise, I'll wager, the rest was balderdash."

Normally, Snape would have accepted the veiled sympathy, but coming from Pince made it almost dynamitic. Then another part of the statement struck him suddenly.

"Trelawney still is . . . lamenting?"

"Aye, that she is. And something terrible too. Sybil claims inner eye 'clouds up at the very mention' of your name, so she said, and apparently the stars have written that you were supposed to apologize and propose to her three months ago." Pince evidentially found the situation very hilarious, and her eyes wilted into a position imitating Greta Garbo's famed _en yeux de coulisse_. This made Snape more infuriated.

"If you're such a confidant to her, you might inform her of where she can stick such preposterous ideas . . ." he muttered under his breath. He did _not_ relish the idea of a middle-aged, menopausal woman with hideous glasses following him about. "I'm goddamn DEAD!" he exclaimed aloud, "I thought such things were supposed to leave one alone at this point!"

"They don't. Not until you lose a bit of your poignant bitterness that makes a woman want to sweep you into her arms."

Snape glared at the librarian's malicious grin. "Syb—I mean, Irma, I request that you leave. We have a patient to attend to."

Oh, but she knew how to make him angry!

"What should I tell the poor dear Trelawney, then?"

"I could care less!" With that, Snape threw an _enervate!_ at Ronald, so waking the boy easily from his profound state of mindlessness. This, as they found very quickly, would prove to be a mistake.

Ron blinked at everything, as though someone had thrust him into an opaque black box for an extended amount of time and just hence removed him. Pince looked at everyone with a supercilious sneer, then turned, giving not a word as she walked towards the door. She had a delicious comeback, perhaps, for halfway on her course of wispily flouncing to the door, her gaunt and austere lines turned back, and her mouth opened as though to speak.

This came interrupted, however, by Ron's screaming. "Wait!" cried the hormonal teenager, springing from his place. Desperately, he dashed towards Pince with high hands, extended and imploring. His arms soon swept around her waist, and he held her in a tight embrace for a strangely long time. Snape looked to Pomfrey, who seemed solemn and confused, then at Pince, who appeared as startled as if she had started to croak with a frog's voice instead of talk.

An explanation finally came in Ron's next words aloud.

"Oh 'Mione. I'm so sorry I stunned you, but it was the only way! I couldn't have you interfering with me and Harry. He's dead now, my lovely, we can go someplace and shag. Please forgive me! You don't know how much it hurt me to hurt you!"

"He's really gone out of it," whispered Pomfrey, a slight catch in her voice. "Oh, how terrible. How horrible."

"How irritating. He obviously mistakes your lovely Irma for being his little Granger." Snape spoke softly, so as not to attract the attention of the deranged young man, but loud enough that Pince could hear even over the Weasley's very heavy labored breathing. "It's not completely an incomprehensible mistake, though—would you not agree with me, Poppy, in the judgment that Madame Pince and Miss Granger share a similar stature and endearment to voluptuous hairstyles?"

Poppy shook her head, unable to say anything.

"Come on, 'Mione, let's go."

Ronald's eyes closed, and his head lay on Pince's shoulder. A wet tongue appeared from between his lips.

"Play along with it, my _dear _Irma!" called Snape, thoroughly enjoying a bit of vicious revenge.

" . . . Hell no, I'm--Oh, DEAR GOD!"

With such a pronouncement, Pince drew her wand and stunned Ron again. The smashing of a dropped bottle of headache potion rang loudly in the infirmary, along with the thud of the boy landing flat on his back.

Snape saw what had brought on that last added capitalized statement, rather too soon for his own taste. A certain . . . thing . . . had unleashed itself from Ron's trousers with the help of the boy's adept hand. Now it basked, uncovered and brazen, in the bright lights of the infirmary.

"I did wonder what you meant by 'I'm oh dear God,' but now I believe you had perfect justice in being so startled that you momentarily forgot your own identity was that of a mere mortal," sneered Snape, with a quick advance on the prostrate student. He noted critically that both Pomfrey and Pince had neither the discretion nor tact to gaze away from the boy. Any gentleman in such a position would have averted the eyes if an exposed female student lay before them. What was it with women, anyways?

_'Oh. Wait. These are lesbian women. They're a whole separate breed_.'

Snape kept his presence of mind fairly well when compared to the women; he had observed many a dick besides his own in the Slytherin boys' showers, since many boys cared very little about privacy and actually took advantage of the situation to flaunt themselves. Severus could not count himself among the number of such young men, but it had helped him grow more accustomed to seeing the male genitals to the point that it no longer interested him in any manner.

"I'm surprised at your lack of dignity, ladies," he stated, as he deftly replaced the organ to whence it came with a brief wave of his wand. He felt a bit dirty and almost homosexual even making such contact to his student's offending appendage, but it had to be done if Pince were ever to leave the room.

The women simultaneously shook themselves off with the disappearance of the 'thing', as though trying to forget an evil dream.

Pomfrey was the first to speak. "That was completely unnecessary," she snapped, falling back into the role of epitome of prudence. "I do not believe the boy is of his right mind whatsoever. We may have to keep him under a sedation charm for _quite _a while."

Snape had the audacity to grin wickedly and give Pince a meaningful look. "I trust your headache is clear now, since you so obviously downed it? It's an instant cure; I make sure of that when I brew the stuff." He gestured to the smashed bottle upon the ground . . . with not a speck of potion anywhere in sight.

Irma, not being a fool, knew when she was beat. "Touche," she mouthed with a glare, but followed with the loud comment, "Quite."

The pair shared a stare for about half a minute, until the librarian declared brashly: "I don't see how _you _do not suffer from headaches so often, though. I read in _The Mervyn's Study of Physiology _that people with big heads are more prone to them."

_'She is getting definitely worse at this.' _ Pince had used the same insult before; not lately, but in the past decade.

The four-eyed woman skittled out of the room before he could retort, however.

……………………

About a half hour later, Pomfrey and Snape had finished all they could possibly do for Ronald Weasley in the immediate future. They had written his parents (to Snape's great disappointment, Poppy insisted on doing the composing of it herself) and accorded an appointment with the psychiatric healer for the next day.

On and off, they would awake Ron from his stun to determine whether or not he was sane enough to at least take a dreamless sleep potion, so that he might not rampage Hogwarts to have sex with Hermione during class time. When they did this, though, the first time he compulsively began to masturbate beneath the covers of his bed, the second time he leaped out of the bed and had to be restrained instantly, and the third time he made an attempt to snog Pomfrey—who did not find herself very amused.

So, they left him in a stun.

"What do you think is causing this?" queried Pomfrey, a bit irascible after that brief encounter with the young man's lips. Looking for all the world like mourners for the dead, Snape and Pomfrey had brought chairs in which to sit and observe the boy lest he do something alternately wacko or illuminating in his sleep.

"I looked into his mind before I brought him here. I rather regret it, I do believe I might have made things worse for him."

Poppy shrugged. "Well, we shall know on the morrow. But did you see anything that might provide a clue of some nature?"

"Somewhat." Snape's eyes shone soberly. "All I found was dreadful chaos and confusion. His main sources of conflict took root years ago, and mainly have to do with his presumed inferiority in the hierarchy of his family. However, there are other factors, like that of his long-lasting . . ." (Oh, damn, here was the l-word he could scarce pronounce.)" . . . affections for Miss Granger. Plus, the innate jealousy of his friend Potter, among other factors. One would never suspects the straits that even a cheerful young adolescent may follow."

He found no surprise when Pomfrey choked a gasp of pity. "No wonder," she said, softly.

For a few minutes, they could hear nothing but their own breathing.

"I noticed you let our esteemed headmistress depart her bed without a thorough check-up," commented Snape, remembering as he saw Pomfrey slowly twisting her ankle, propelling her spinning chair to rock from side to side.

"Ah. No, I made sure she was completely well. Scanned over her and everything, and the analysis charm revealed nothing out of the ordinary on her status chart."

"Does the analysis charm check on the vitals of the brain, as well?"

Poppy stopped her habitual half-spinning. "What are you driving at, Severus?"

"I think she was a bit touched, at least when I spoke to her. She appointed me as deputy headmaster." The bitterness could not hide itself. "Me! This repulsing apparition that defies nature, a dead man, a shade! Naught but a form representative of the devil! And not only all that, but still a character with a despicable personality, who always has been nothing more than a cold haddock!"

"You give yourself too little credit, Severus. You have always been a good man at your core. Perhaps a bit misguided at some times . . . but you always guided yourself, and every self-guided person is prone to mistakes at times. You're actually one of the lucky ones that managed to evade the throes of hell." Pomfrey allowed herself a smile even under the circumstances confronting them. "She made a good, ethical, reasonable, _wonderful _choice in making you her successor, Severus. I'm glad she did."

Snape had nothing to say, but realized that she probably had a mind the capacity of a goldfish's anyways. Pomfrey might be an excellent healer, but she did not have a sense of reason.

"I would appreciate, though, if you watched her especially closely," Pomfrey continued. "As much as I hate to say something like this, I find I must." She looked at Snape pointedly. "She's got a cancerous growth in her abdomen, and though there's nothing I would not do if I could, we only discovered it recently—too late to do anything about it."

The silence hung heavy.

"How long does she have, do you surmise?"

"Well . . ."

"Pomfrey, I value your opinion. Go ahead and say, I can bear it well enough. I already know the best and worst parts of death." His grim face was discounted by the lilt of irony in his voice.

"I give her a year, at best." Pomfrey looked at her hands in her lap. Two soft tears trickled down her face.

Snape _accio_ed a handkerchief from somewhere and proffered it gently. _'A year. A year for me to find a suitable successor of my own. Possibly to find someone to take my place entirely. A year until I must face the task of being in charge of England's best wizarding minds . . .'_

"I feel guilty about it. I should have insisted that I check her over more often. Do you know, it was five years since I last looked over her when she suddenly came down with that migraine this morning? The cancerous growth is just beneath her diaphragm. I . . . oh, Severus. I feel so terrible!"

More fat streams of saline threatened to waft down, but she dabbed her ocular organs gently to prevent such an occurrence.

"Do not feel terrible, Pomfrey. If the woman were not such a stubborn old horse about everything, we would not be here today, very likely."

"Watch out for her, Severus. Make sure she does not exert herself too much."

"I will do as you say."

They sat for a long while, again in silence.

"But do you mind if I change the subject?" Pomfrey queried timorously.

A shrugging of the shoulder signified Snape's indifference. "I'm not in the process of leaving, nor do I intend to follow such a recourse soon."

"Lovely." Pomfrey sighed. "This might seem a bit personal, Severus . . . but why did you die?"

A fleeting pause swept past. Plus another. Perhaps yet another.

"Why were you so unprepared? You should have known about the whole Elder Wand thing, about the fact that it would seem that you were its new master. I would have thought you might anticipate that he-who-must-not-be-named might have used his vile snake upon you. You being such an intelligent, forthright, astute young man—"

"—Not so much young, anymore, Poppy; rather, ageless."

"—_YOUNG _man, you would have realized that you were in danger, and aptly prepared for it."

Snape stared at her. No one had asked him this until now, probably not even thinking about it except as a matter of course, never really considering it. Not to say that _he _had not thought about it a great deal, for he had.

"I have only one real reason," he stated slowly, savoring the words that he had mentally composed over nights of wakeful slumbers over the course of the summer. "And that merely being: I did not _want _to live."

Pomfrey appeared less shocked than he assumed she would. He decided it would be safe to carry on with his explanation.

"I did not _want _to live," he repeated for the sake of dramatics, "Because I knew my use had been expended. I considered long and carefully for years before my death, in what possible ways the Dark Lord would contrive to kill me, and how to avoid them. I actually _was _prepared for a snakebite, that night, for I had seen how others who defied the Dark Lord died . . . at the fangs of Nagini."

Carefully, he unclasped the front of his cloak and lay it upon his lap. He took Pomfrey's hand and guided it over an invisible lump of glass.

"Was I supposed to feel something?" she whispered.

_Oh_. _Right. She's not a ghost, she cannot sense it._

"I forgot, you could not if you wanted to," Snape replied, with some chagrin. "But what you were _supposed _to feel was the slick surface of a potion bottle containing a bit of stuff I brewed to immediately counteract Nagini's venom, and heal whatever wound she might have made. I died with it in my pocket."

Pomfrey now had the good graces to seem appalled. "Really?"

"Indeed. Now, you see, I truly did not mind dying in the least sense. I knew that I probably had done my duty well enough, and my last mission to Potter had been completed. He had the knowledge of my innocence and of what Dumbledore had in store for him. I imagined that he was going to die, and thus my connection with Lily severed. I . . . I was afraid, Poppy. As much as I loathed the shape of the metaphorical vessel that brought proverbial water to my figurative lips, I still loved its color. I died with the full knowledge that I had done all I could to prevent that vessel from being smashed, and took a small amount of delight in informing it of its eminent smash, but, ultimately, I was not ready to make such a sacrifice as live without that color in my life ever again."

"A beautiful comparison, Severus. You have such a way with words."

"Thank you," Snape replied hastily, uncomfortable at the compliment. "You might call it a passive suicide, if you like. Because, simply, that is what it was. I had the knowledge that if I wanted, I could have lived to see the end of it. But I had no real urge to do so, when it came to that. I was contented to do absolutely nothing, and here I am."

He sighed in despair.

"Do you wish now, Severus, that you had taken the potion?"

Snape laughed. "Do you know? I rather recant the action very much. Especially when Rita Skeeter wrote an article about me."

Pomfrey said nothing. She seemed altogether too pensive and thoughtful for an alumni of Hufflepuff.

"By the way, you may want to have your old classmate Pomona examined soon," Snape hinted, with a tad of humor in his voice. "She was talking to me earlier about eating babies, and rather liking the idea."

"Oh. She's always been like that, with an underlying morbid streak no one would ever suspect. I guess you're so morbid usually, though, that you never noticed."

Pomfrey seemed a bit morbid herself at this moment, nonetheless.

Snape had naught more to say, and soon found himself leaving the infirmary and heading towards the Great Hall and afternoon classes.

* * *

(1) I'm thinking that J.K.'s naming of Pince not inept. It just makes it very terrible for writers who want to write a synonym for glasses in the same breath as her name, for then we have the word repetition to worry about. Gah. 

_Indifferent? Review._

_Disdain it? Still review._

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_Main point: REVIEW PLEASE! _


	20. Mr Weasley and Points to Gryffindor

_1. Anyone want to write me a better summary than the one I have? Every time I try to pen one, it fails me on this story. There's too much I want to say and too little space to say it. Someone please . . . without any influence of my current one . . . write a summary for me? Please? I belive it has to be like 250 characters or something. Thanks very much._

_2. I know a lot of this is prefunctory work with little action, but I'm trying to delve into the characters, give an overview of everyone and how the war affected them._

* * *

Chapter 20

**Points to Gryffindor**

The first week went rather as usual. Though accompanied by the startled glances and even more fearful looks he gleaned from the student populace in his new form, Snape found there was little to comment on and little of note. His first class went on without a comment on his part about his new ghostly state—for why should he bring it up? It would not effect his ability to teach class or deduct points from Gryffindor, so everything was all right in _his _world. At least, as 'all right' as anything _could _be in his world.

He swore to get a discussion with Flitwick on the plight of the Slytherins vs. the world sooner than the first Friday of the school year, the day he had double potions with the advanced 7th years, but this did not occur. Things always were busiest the first month or so, students and teachers alike settling into the routine of school, so Snap barely could manage to wean the little wizard away from the Great Hall as early as possible that fine morning.

"What's so urgent, Severus?" queried the part-Goblin irritably, tearing a bit off a Danish that he held gingerly in a handkerchief. "Is there anything wrong, perchance? You look more than a little flustered."

"If I had more time, I would ease up to the subject more subtly than this," Snape replied, kneeling as he could to bring his face closer to Flitwick's level, "But the candid reason I'm pulling you away from breakfast is an important one indeed."

The petite man cocked a shaggy gray eyebrow pensively. "Is this regarding the treatment of the Slytherins, how the school is so prejudiced against them and all?"

"Absolutely." Snape was, truthfully, rather relieved that he did not have to initiate the rigmarole once again. "Minerva told you, I suppose?"

"She did," nodded th diminutive teacher, but he bit his lip. "However, I must say it was no unanticipated on my part. One of my 7th year students three years ago noticed the decreasing number of Slytherins in this school, and calculated that by the year 2000 there would be exactly one."

Both men's faces reflected the other's, grim and worried.

"That's two years away. What was the prediction for 1999?"

"Three."

"And this student . . . "

"Hands-down the best arithmancy student of his year."

"Will Eddies?"

"That's him." Flitwick shook his head in dismay. "Shame that boy went off to be in the aurorship. He might have done far better with himself."

"Agreed."

They held a respectful silence for the student who had not achieved his real potential.

"So you have known, yourselves, since then?"

"Oh yes." Flitwick nodded kindly.

"Why did you say nothing, then?"

The little man shrugged his shoulder. "It was not our place to come against the great, mighty lions. If we shared our conclusions with you as Slytherins, I doubt the anger resulting would have been easy to channel into oblivion, to hide, and so in order to prevent worse things from happening, we said nothing to you. If we shared our data with the Hufflepuffs, they would probably be drawn into a fierce whirlwind of emotions, not sure who to sympathize with and who to hate, and thus would retract from the rest of the school and endanger their own survival. They are the sort to cover their eyes when the fearsome battles between the supplemented Hercules and the wounded Hades are in progress, for they do not know whether to support for the underdog or the bully."

Flitwick's attention went to his feet in a sort of abashed reverence. "And as for us . . . well, we Ravens are the force that thinks things through, but is terrible at carrying out. We knew what would happen to Slytherin in time, but until now we have waited for instructions for what course of action to take. I must say, I did think there were ways to reverse the situation before it got this severe, and am disappointed in myself that I did not say anything at the time."

What to reply to this? Snape was a bit hesitant—it was obvious that Flitwick felt badly about his lack of consternation to help Slytherin, certainly, but did that mean he was going to do anything about it now . . .?

"It is good to know that all this is not just an affliction of my mind," Severus coolly stated, "And that someone else has been knowing all along. It puts my struggle with the snakes in more perspective, as it may. But I must ask . . . are you intending to comply with the request I am making to be more lenient with the Slytherins, or what?"

"Of course I will make an effort to support you and your kind, Severus," Flitwick nodded. His eyes held a faint glow of approval that always rather disconcerted the potions master. "I will attend to it the first chance."

So saying, the men bade each other farewell, and Snape went on his way.

As the irascible ghost headed towards the potions classroom, someone with red hair ran (literally) through him.

"Professor Weasley!"

The young man stopped in his one-man charge and spun about, nearly falling to the floor as he did so.

"Oi! Professor Snape! I'm sorry, all right, but I have an owl to send!"

Percy Weasley looked a bit more worn than usual, his cheeks lacking the usual Weasley cheerful pallor, the stiff

"Never mind, I often am ignored in such a manner," the potions master bitterly stated, thinking that he ought to count every time some unwary personage either walked or ran through the imprint of his departed soul. "But I would like to briefly inquire as to the state of your brother. I have heard nothing about him since his departure for the hospital, and he is not in classes."

If possible, the young man's face turned even more pale. "He's . . . he's not of a right mind, sir," Percy almost implored, stepping towards Snape slowly. "Last I saw him yesterday, he was raving about Ginny trapped in the Chamber of Secrets again, which happened in his 2nd year. Then he thinks that Fred is . . . well . . . still around. Alive. And seeing him like that is even worse than _George _going about with that idea. He wasn't even Fred's twin, and he's got it worse off!"

Snape could see that Percy was very distressed indeed, and made no attempt to ebb the garrulous stream of speech from the boy. He, in all probability, had no one to talk to about this, and, him being a Weasley, if not a more normalized one, needed the social comfort of talking about his problems.

"And then mum and dad are at each other tooth and nails about everything," Percy moaned, putting a hand to his temple in agitation, "And a lot of it has to do with me. Me and my self-exile from the family, mainly. Even though I've said I'm back for good, mum doesn't believe it, though dad does. Then, with Ron so . . . out of it . . . and Ginny all but fucking Harry in the middle of class . . . and George's distress with the loss of his brother . . . I mean, it's like I'm a bartender who stepped out of a pub for two minutes for a joint, then come back in again to serve drinks and everyone's in a brawl!"

Though Snape thoughtfully wondered why such a colorful metaphor graced the lips of one so prim and austere, he merely listened.

"And then Penelope . . . well . . . she's finally seeing me again, which is a good thing I suppose, but she's upset because I can't see her _here_ with my job as a teacher. Added on top of the problems with my family, she thinks we should just stop fucking with each other and actually get married. Do I look like I can handle that right now? I hate to sound like a whiny little eleven-year-old, but it's not fucking fair!"

Here, he realized that he was losing his control somewhat, and Percy breathed deeply to console himself. "But the main bulk of my worries comes from the fact that things were so much _better _when I was alone. I didn't _have _to worry about my family and their problems . . . I did, of course, but I was under no obligation to do so. I had alienated myself from them, decided I did not need them. And now I'm thinking that I probably had a point. They've just been causing me more trouble and strife than I ever had to deal with. I know Penelope did not like that I was so cruel to them, but, hey, I don't think I want to keep in this hell-hole for the sake of a girl. There are others out there . . ."

Here, Snape decided the boy did not sound so certain, his voice a little less confident, and he thought that perhaps the Weasley might do better just by getting out of the country.

"Oh. And I think my dad is seeing somebody." Percy paused, as if unsure how to proceed. "Someone here. I don't know who, or why, but I've seen him walking about here after hours looking a bit more pleased than usual, sometimes whistling until he notices me. The time I confronted him, he said he had come to bother with some problem of Ginny's. But he was walking in totally the opposite direction from the Gryffindor tower."

Percy, at this point, grimaced.

"I'm really sorry that I let out like this to you, you don't care a fuck about me or my problems or whatever. You were just convenient, and you asked how Ron was so . . . well . . ."

His words sputtered out, leaving again the cold wick and wax of the tallow candle that Percy usually was, unlit and not incensed.

Snape felt drawn to pity and sorrow, seeing bits of himself in the boy.

"It's sometimes not so terrible to be . . . convenient," Snape commented, and he hoped his face expressed the fact that he did not mind Percy's deluge of previously unvoiced opinions. "It is human nature to feel and divulge one's feelings. I, though many would attest otherwise to this, have always been a rather feeling person myself. My best advice for you is: well, it's not all being done as a personal insult to you. At your age, I had the firm belief that everyone's conveyance of troubles onto my shoulders was based on something they disliked me for. Now I see it was just life and how life worked itself out, I was never specifically _chosen_ to be a scapegoat, per se."

He paused, considering.

"I would suggest, though, if things get _too _beyond your capability of management—and, believe me, when you yourself think it's too much, it _is—_I would suggest leaving this little island once and for all. Take your girl and go to the States. You can provide your family with support when they need it here, but if the entire cave is intent on falling in on itself, one single beam will not stop it from pursuing the course it wants to take. Before you get too deep, just abscond and forget it all. If Clearwater will not go with you, go alone. As you said, there are many girls in the world, and having a dependable man like yourself will be an offer few will want to miss."

A pause. Snape hoped his words would buoy up Percy at least for a while, if not longer.

"I do think, Professor Weasley, that you might do a lot worse than that. You are a fearlessly efficient, responsible young man with your whole life ahead of you, and if you are too suppressed here in England, you should transplant yourself in an environment where you would thrive. Before it comes to be too late."

Percy looked keenly at the ghost for a moment. "Did you intend to do that yourself?"

Why not throw caution to the wind? It was easier for young people to take advice if they knew the giver could empathize with them instead of just sympathizing.

"I thought about it," Snape admitted. "But I was under the impression that I was actually needed here. Now, I wonder."

"It's a good thing you didn't leave," the Weasley murmured. "I hear people talk, mainly because no one pays attention to the demure, almost secretarial figure that I am, anyways. I can't forget hearing, time and time again, how we would not have won the war without you."

Oh, but he was lying. The young sot. "Who, then?"

"McGonagall."

All right, maybe he was not being completely untruthful. "I'll concede to believe that."

"Harry."

Blast it. That brat. "He does not know what he says. Doesn't know the half of what happened, except what Dumbledore told him and my own memories that I gave him."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

That was more intriguing, yet still not far-fetched. "Very interesting."

"Mad-Eye. Before he died, of course."

Here was the shocker.

"Hell. He did?"

"Yes, actually. He was a bit tipsy at the time, but he was never the sort to be inclined to lie even under influence of firewhiskey."

Snape felt unsure how to respond to this.

"Startling, very startling," he muttered. "But still, this is all a matter of opinion."

"You are strangely modest," Percy declared vehemently, "And it's one thing I never understood about you. When you teach . . . you aren't this way. Yet, as an adult, you tend to underestimate yourself and your influence in the world."

"Because I know what I'm doing when I'm teaching, and because I _have_ to be confident there. I would not be certified to teach if I could not at least act proficient in my subject." Snape thought a moment before continuing, "Besides, in the classroom is—or, well, _was, _actually—the only real time I was actually in command of others as opposed to just acting out the orders of either the Dark Lord or Dumbledore."

"That must have been hard." Percy seemed a bit better now, and the potions maser realized he ought to get to his classroom.

"No more hard than what you're dealing with now, Professor Weasley."

Percy looked a bit taken aback. "Just call me Percy, is that all right? The Professor part still doesn't seem . . . well, _me._"

"It would be a breach of propriety on my part. I make it a habit not to address previous or current students as anything less formal than last names. If you prefer, may I address you as Mr. Weasley?"

"Certainly, Professor." The boy impulsively added, "You really are a strange character, sir, if you do not mind me saying. I thought I understood you as a student, but now you're entirely different. It's a bit weird."

A small smile tweaked Snape's lip. "Count yourself among many; I still do not understand myself, quite often."

With a nod, both men turned to walk away, but then Snape remembered something.

"Wait, Mr. Weasley! I forgot, I was originally meaning to speak to you concerning something quite necessary."

Percy turned around, curious.

"Has Minerva spoken to you regarding my Slytherins and their impending demise?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Yes, actually. She took me aside the other day and gave me a lecture on how we're supposed to be good to the Snakes and such. Not to give them enough house points to win the cup this year, but not to be biased against them like everyone always has been. I didn't know what to make of it; was all that your doing?"

"Indeed. Did she explain why, though, we are doing this?"

"Not exactly."

Snape sighed. "What do you _think_ is the reason, boy?"

" . . . because of the war and everything? After almost all the Slytherin families were involved in the Death Eater regime and such? That would make the most sense to me. After all, the number of kids sorted into Slytherin seemed uncommonly small this year. It was only about ten or fifteen, wasn't it?"

"Nine, Mr. Weasley. And yes, that is precisely the reason. In short, people are afraid to be in Slytherin, that being in the house would brand them for posterity as being Death Eaters or being affiliated with Death Eater values."

"And we want to change this, because the dispersion of all the potential Slytherins into all the other houses would be a _bad _thing?"

Percy shook his head. "I actually think it would be a _good _thing to have all the Slytherins put into the other three houses."

In relative shock, Snape stared.

"Having the Slytherins segregated into one house makes them more attackable, see? If they're allied into the less formidable houses, no one would know they were better suited in Slytherin, and it'd be less easy to say "Oh, those stupid Slytherins" because all the Slytherins are evenly spread. Does that make sense?"

"It makes sense," Snape replied dryly, "But then it makes the situation intensified and worse—instead of saying, "Oh, those stupid Slytherins" the blame goes to separated individuals: "Oh, that stupid Kathy" or "stupid Abel" or such. That is more psychologically harmful to the potential Slytherins, the hatred and separation from their houses because of their Slytherin qualities."

"But doesn't that happen already?" Percy retaliated hotly. "I mean, people in Gryffindor always poked fun of me for being a stick-up-the-arse and a workaholic, to the point I almost lamented not going into Ravenclaw. And, from what Lucius Malfoy said about you to his prison-keeper in Azkaban, you weren't so liked by your house counterparts either."

"What did Malfoy say, and how did you find out?" asked Snape, not particularly angry but not indifferent either.

"Just that he was the only one who paid you any attention. Official transcript written by the guard because Malfoy purportedly tried to make a move on his keeper, and there was some sort of official skirmish about it."

Snape snorted. "I practically was his valet for his last year, but no matter. And, in that position, I was privy to seeing _many _a salacious activity in the 7th year dorm. I was too young for Lucius, thank Merlin, but others just older than me were not so lucky to evade that in-the-closet-gay's lures."

"But back to the issue at hand," Percy redirected, "I maintain that it's better to let the Slytherin house die than to try and let it rise again."

"But what was so _wrong _about the Slytherins?" queried Snape, "Why was it so _bad _to have it in its prime state?"

Percy could not rightly answer this question.

"I . . . I couldn't say offhand . . . give me some time to think this over, and I'll get back to you on it," he decided.

"Do so. Once we have finished our debate, you can leave the country. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But I'm still going to do as you ask and be _nice _to your Snakes."

"I thank you."

On such terms, the man and ghost parted.

Seventh year potions. Eyes focused upon him covertly, glances dashing away when he turned his phantasimal head.

He did not truthfully mind, and figured that they probably would get used to it eventually. No one paid any attention to Binns' state anymore, after all.

While his mind dwelt on his fellow ghost teacher, Snape wondered when Binns' death-day was. Well, if the old boy did not chicken out when the time came, Severus decided he would know soon enough.

What girl was it that wanted his place so badly? Elsa Mammon. Ravenclaw, class of '93. Well, someone ought to let her know when Binns disappeared off the face of the earth, let her know that she was the one he nominated to take her place. At least she might be a little less biting towards Binns' memory.

His attention was drawn to his class's brewing. Hermione Granger looked pained and broken, stirring her cauldron's contents miserably. How very unlike her, for the very first week of school, to be so depressed! But she had reason, if she so foolishly had a notion of loving that idiot Ronald Weasley.

Thankfully, the marvellous Harry Potter had not made it into the Advanced class, so there was no reason that Snape would have to encounter the beast today. He was glad of that.

The rest of the students here assembled were of little consequence, mainly Ravenclaws and Slytherins with an occasional Hufflepuff and the lone Gryffindor Granger. Mainly girls, too. Erica Baldwin, and Julia Rains made up the Hufflepuffs--Annie Malcomb, Galileo Nottingham, Meghan Miso, Megan Tessine, General Porpins, Lacey Ryans, and of course his dear Luna made up the Ravenclaws--Bailey Essex, Lusile Tanenbaum, Rick Jannings, Birdie Sandies, and Mord Dixie made up the Slytherins. The brightest and best in the class of '99, with one girl who ought to have been class of '98.

They were now trying to create a _lumos menti _potion, which--when carefully and correctly crafted--allowed one to visualize the images in their brain through their real eyes, as opposed to their mere mind's eye. Snape had a sneaking suspicion that a slightly modified version of this concoctment was in the Weasley's _living daydream _things. Oh, but the boys probably were unaware of the potential risk of addiction from the opium in the potion, though!

--Wait, _boy._ Not _boys. _Dash it all, now the reality of the twins' separation was hard for _him _to cope with, too! He really must try and help George, if possible. _Not that I can actually do anything for them, really_ he remembered sullenly.

Maybe Irma Pince could, if she was not lying about her recent research on psychiatric disorders. Though a small part of him hoped the lesbian librarian's claim was false, he rationally knew that she would never use such a lie just to provoke him. _It's always more fun when the truth is the barb in a slur. _He might just check up on her work. Drag her to St. Mungos if he had to do so.

Oh blast. In the course of events in the classroom, Snape's attention had been realistically diverted to watching over Julia Rains' shoulder, as she was the one with the most Longbottom-ish qualities in the room (how she got an O on her OWLS last year was beyond him!) and his unconcious prodded his concious to look at Lacey Ryans. The girl, in the midst of splicing a bit of herring-bone, had inadverdently knocked over the bottle of powdered poppy seed, and it scattered all over her workdesk. It seemed some got in her eyes, for she automatically raised her hand to rub her left ocular organ without thinking.

"Stop! Miss Ryans, what do you think you're doing? That's a condensed opiate! You'll-"

His cry was interrupted by a _Stupefy! _on the part of Miss Granger, who fired the concise spell at the other girl, who was just inches away from ruining her eyes forever. Ryans fell to the floor, petrified, and Hermione began to clean up the mess gingerly.

"Excellent reflexes, Miss Granger. Twenty points to Gryffindor."

He did not see the shock of the situation until he realized that all eyes were openly staring.

_Oh. Damn it all. I just gave points to Gryffindor. Bloody hell. Did I really? _

"What's the matter?" he barked fiercely at the mass of brainiacs who all gazed at him in awe. "Haven't you ever seen a teacher give Gryffindor points? Two points from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, accordingly."

The Slytherins looked even more dazed than ever, but they all hurriedly set back to their cauldrons, faces flaming from more than the high heat of their burners.

_Dash it all. I just took points from Slytherin in almost the same breath. What am I turning into?_

Dismissing this alarming thought, he transfigured the opium in Ryans' eye into baking soda, and woke the girl from her stupor, who fortunately had no ill effects from the incident.

_

* * *

_

_Ok, that was short, but I'm really busy lately and I just wanted to give you what I could. Next chapter will be another with Ron . . . and I promise it will be entertaining!_


	21. A Weasley Collage

_Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling. Enough said. _

Um. I said before that this chapter would be entertaining, with antics by Ronald. Well, when I read it, I don't find that this chapter is quite what I had in mind when I said that . . . it's not as amusing as I hoped. But, then, that's mainly due to the fact that some of what happens in this chapter, as far as he is concerned, is directly related to stuff going on in my own life as of this week. (No, that's not to say that I myself am crazy!) So I don't really feel like making this chapter black humor. That's my apology for not keeping my promise, I'm sorry. 

* * *

**Chapter 21**

A number of photographs, a collection of letters, and a mitten—such made up his altar to Lily Evans. Severus worked to compile the treasure-trove over many years, aided by some carefully preserved articles from their childhood. A few photographs in the Muggle Polaroid of a young black-haired boy and green-eyed girl sitting or playing together. Scratchings and scribblings from when he first introduced her to a pen and parchment. Clippings from the annuals printed during their years of schooling. A few ribbons that she randomly lost, that he never returned. A bottle of her favorite French _parfum_ that he spent almost all his summer earnings upon for her 5th year birthday present, never given due to her later estrangement from him. The hoard filled a large discarded Hogwarts trunk from his own past days, kept under several unbreakable wards and enclosed in a secret location.

Snape, on some random occasions in life, would open the trunk and immerse himself in memories, memories of a shining past that would ensconce his senses entirely. In an almost automatic ritual, he would gaze at one or another of the photographs, imagining that she stood near as she waited for approval. Closing his eyes, he would open the perfume bottle, shake it gently, and let the scent waft throughout the room, her visage in his mind. His fingers would twine one of the stray silk ribbons in his hand, winding the smooth fabric and letting it stroke his skin. When, with a turning of the head, he would feel the long locks of his own hair on his shoulder and imagine with a thrill that she poised her chin just above his clavicle. Sometimes, in a climactic surge, he might end with his arms wrapped around one of the posts of his bed, lips pressed against the cold wood with passionate longing. Severus retained a very chaste and respectful relationship with Lily's memory, though, so he never went further than such a clothed embrace in these fantasies.

He used to try and convince himself that he could forget his love for her. Photographs, torn then repaired with hasty _reparo_s, testified that it still endured yet.

The ghost of Snape sat in his room of Saturday morning, all of a sudden filled with a desire to look into his trunk. Rarely did a year pass when, sometime in the first week or two of school, he would not open it and 'examine' the contents.

Naturally, he went to the knot in the corner floorboard that hid the trunk's priest-hole, and he pressed it with a light touch. Mumbling the usual incantations and passwords, his straight lip began to lean into a smile as he could almost smell Lily's perfume already.

Then came the point in the process where Snape felt his genius most, in the finger-print detector. Based off the Muggle idea so often used in James Bond movies and the like, Snape once created a charm that would examine his thumb print and, upon recognition, admit him into the vault.

Oh, but horror of horrors! When he tried to put his finger to the recognizing pad, he found it to no avail—the charm did not work without a solid hand! His ghost's features, though able to carry about life nearly as usual, did not have the physical properties capable to break the enchantment. The sensing spell would not accept them.

The Slytherins in their common room maintained later that they heard an inhuman scream lasting nearly a full ten seconds somewhere in the dungeons, that reason explaining why they did not go to breakfast for almost an hour, thanks very much.

When he came to the point where he himself cried dry, Snape lay on the floor, comatose. He no longer could gain access to his tangible memories of Lily, and thus no more ability to feel her presence. Though somewhat exaggeratedly, he imagined the pain as terrible as if she had died again.

A light but incessant tapping on the door aroused him. Though he had no inclination to do anything else that day but muse over his inadequacy and grieve for his losses, he rose with a dead man's energy and opened the door.

The sight of a modest paper airplane, like those used in the Ministry to send memos, irked him, but he snatched it out of the air nonetheless. After all, he himself suggested not long ago to McGonagall that using such a method of conveying written messages might prove very convenient within the castle. She took up this improvement readily, evidentially concerned with her own declining health as he remained. Thus, he suspected that this meager note might preclude a great barrage.

In the last few days, Snape spent time working to find more convenient means of administration. He knew that McGonagall appreciated all his efforts, and they also pleased him more than he should care to admit. He enjoyed creating organization, and fancied himself very efficient.

Gaining at least some amount of interest for what the note might contain, he opened the thin parchment gingerly.

_I am going to visit Mr. Weasley in the hospital_, wrote Minerva in her prim post-Victorian penmanship, _and thought you might care to accompany me. Come to my office at once. _

Query in his face, Snape looked at the letter. How did she intend to get him to St. Mungos? Floo did not work for him, as he discovered over the summer, and she would undoubtedly take advantage of her nephew's presence in the Floo Network Directory Department. _Well, I should still go up and see her_, he mused. _No worse than staying down here moping over my pathetic straits. _

. . .  
He arrived soon enough at McGonagall's office, and the aforementioned lady rose from her chair in an ageless fashion to greet him. 

"What is the latest on the state of Mr. Weasley?" Snape asked immediately. "Anything in particular to warrant this visit?"

"Well, it has not been until today that Physic (1) Drosselmeyer has validated Ronald as being approachable, so we and other members of the Weasley family ought to be there. Ginny ought to come in a moment; I summoned her as I did you."

Snape, recalling with some disgust Percy's very florid speech from days before, saw a sudden mental image of Miss Ginerva and Potter involved in illicit activities in an abandoned hallway, interrupted from their groans and sighs by one of those ridiculous little paper planes . The thought made him snort aloud.

"What?" McGonagall's brow knitted in slight confusion.

"I apologize, Minerva. Nothing."

"Well. Simply, Severus, I believe the easiest mode of transportation to the hospital would be for us to floo, since the only alternative I can consider would be for you to . . . well fly, ramble, or whatever it is you want to call it."

Snape nodded, hearing and listlessly responding.

"In any case, I thought we might take advantage of your ability to . . . solidify on certain occasions."

This was getting interesting. Snape raised both eyebrows, pondering over what this might possibly entail.

A timid knocking interrupted them, though, this preceding the entry of Ginny Weasley. She looked a bit flushed, as though from running, and Snape cruelly scanned her for evidence suggesting she came from elsewhere than class—but her buttons all sat neatly in place, and her shirt contained no rumples, so he found himself mildly disappointed that he could not accuse her of anything.

"We are ready, then," Minerva said flatly. "You may step through, Miss Weasley, then take the door on your right."

Without a word, Ginny followed directions and disappeared with a sullen glare at the potions master. Snape, with revulsion, realized that she perceived his thorough examination of her as 'checking her out', as the popular terminology mandated. As though, if he contained any desire to, he could not do so in class enough unnoticed!

"Now, Severus, take my hand."

Uneasily, Snape proffered the required appendage to the old woman, and she grasped the phantasmal matter as firmly as she could, but he sensed a hesitance in her manner that showed her skepticism for the phenomenon. However, as always, Snape felt his feet become heavy, and, steadily, the rest of his body became as real as ever.

Minerva took a moment to gaze at him in his restored state, unabashed. "Why did you never marry, Severus?" she asked rhetorically, and Snape looked determinedly at his boots. Hell, why did people choose to remind him of Lily when he felt more detached from her than ever before?

Then, quietly, he felt Minerva's eyes leave his visage, and they walked into the fire.

He felt almost surprised when they appeared in a bright, cold hallway of St. Mungo's. McGonagall let go of his hand with some reluctance, and he flt himself shrivel to his normal state of weightlessness again. Following Minerva's purposeful stride, they went through the door at the right.

A flurry of red hair accosted Snape's vision as soon as they made their entrance. It seemed that every Weasley in existence crowded into the room, and more showed up sporadically every few moments.

A diminutive little healer tried to keep everyone in some sort of order.

"Please, only four visitors at a time," she demanded, but without maintaining any peace in the hubub. Snape recognized Mr. and Mrs. Weasley amid the faces of six non-nuclear relatives, and George Weasley surrounded by another half-dozen. Minerva guided herself to wait upon the pale-faced Molly and Arthur, while Snape slunk in an introverted manner to stand along an uninfected wall.

A thump startled Snape, and brought his notice to Percy Weasley limply leaning against the wall next to him.

"Good day, Professor," the boy muttered under his breath, the irony of his statement squirming in sarcasm through the lilt of his voice. Snape cleared his throat and acknowledged with a slight incline f his head.

"Mr. Weasley."

The pair remained in a comfortable silence for some time.

"This is a total bloody disaster," Percy said dismally after a few minutes. "Look at them all, like some ghastly vultures swarming over the tragedy of their kin. Fascination with abomination. Disgusting."

"That is human nature, Mr. Weasley," Snape replied. "But there is naught the demure observers as ourselves can do about it."

"That's quite true," Percy conceded. "But if only they could see themselves. They might feel rather pathetic."

"People _are _pathetic, but even more so because they are willing to accept the fact."

Percy shook his head, replying, "By the way, I've come up with some fundamental reasons why it would be better to dissipate Slytherin into the other houses."

Snape's interest peaked, though he stated: "It is neither the time nor the place for this discussion, Mr. Weasley."

"By Merlin, don't you try and tell me I'm being any worse than _them!_" He gestured to his relatives with an expression of revulsion. "Crooning and crying and wailing and talking in hushed voices and all the rest of it! I'm just bloody well trying to get it out of my mind!"

Snape himself could not refute the value of that. Ronald's troubles would prove quite enough to worry about without the trial of analyzing gossipy adults.

"Fine, then pray continue."

With a shudder, Percy began, "The main thing is, though, after thinking and pondering over it some more, I decided that it's probably better to eliminate the house system altogether. It's-"

"-Abandon the house system altogether?" Snape interrupted hostilely. The idea seemed so radical, new, and vehement that it completely shook him. "What in Merlin's name do you mean by that? One can't . . . do such a thing. To suddenly end such a long-standing tradition . . . to destroy the great legacy of the Hogwarts founders . . . the idea simply stuns the brain and strains the imagination."

Yet, though he tried to keep it within him, a passionate longing from his early years as a student came to him anew. In his despondence over Lily's abrupt separation from his side, he fervently and childishly wished that the houses did not exist. _That was a long time ago I last had that notion_ he thought, grim. Aloud, he declared, "Does the suggestion not seem infantile and impulsive?"

"No, and I swear it's the best damn idea I ever got" refuted Percy. "Think about it. Hogwarts itself is gradually losing students. After all, there aren't that many wizarding families in the U.K. and Ireland anymore, and most European continentals prefer to send their children to the multi-language schools of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. As it was, we were barely maintaining the same number of students for the past 50 years prior to the 1900s. Since the 1950s especially, there has been a slow but steady decline."

"And Slytherin has been taking the greatest hit. I see."

"There's more," Percy insisted. "I've been reading, and see that the enrollment has been decreasing very dramatically from the school year following the Triwizard Tournament to this year . The only reason I can account for that is the teenagers and parents sent to Azkaban, so many of whom that they aren't replacing themselves even remotely. The English wizard population is in decline, Professor. And there's very little to be done about it, from what I can see—unless they allow prisoners in Azkaban the conditions to reproduce."

"Or they instate a marriage law." Snape grimaced. "Intermarrying of Muggle-borns and purebloods. There has been talk of that in past years, but no one ever thought of going through with it in actuality."

"Or an emigration law," chorused the younger man. "A limit on who can leave the country and when. They also proposed certain benefits that would allow new wizard immigrants an excellent lifestyle here; at least, that was the talk when I officially resigned from the Ministry services last July. They already have lowered the tax per head in house significantly to virtually nothing."

"Which you Weasleys appreciated more than anyone, I suppose," reminded Snape acrimoniously, ignoring Percy's glare. "But you still not have proven to me why it would benefit the school to eliminate the house system."

"Oh. Right. Simply, I think it would improve the student body completely. Why do we need this constant battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin, with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs watching sadly in the background? I mean, it's all rather silly, really, when you think about it. Trying to sort everybody out into different houses just because they're this or that. 'Oh, you're a thinker but not a doer, so you go to Ravenclaw.' 'Oh, you're a doer _and_ a thinker, you go to Slytherin.' 'Oh, you're a doer but not a thinker, you go to Gryffindor.' 'Oh, you're neither a thinker nor a doer, you go to Hufflepuff.' No. That's not a good way to work things out."

Here, Percy paused for breath, collecting his thoughts. Snape waited patiently, looking for points to debate, but finding few. Instead, he opted for a bit of praise.

"That's actually quite a clear conception of the houses, your classification of 'thinker' versus 'doer'."

"Thanks, I used it in an essay once and liked it immensely," Percy responded, pluming. "In any case," he resolved, going back into explanation, "It's not always a great thing to separate the people within a school like that. Abraham Lincoln used the analogy that 'a house divided does not stand' or something of that nature."

"You mean, 'United we stand, divided we fall.'"

"Yeah. And, I mean, we barely got through the war without our proverbial 'walls' falling in on us, if you catch my drift."

"Indeed."

"Really, we're already in such competition with the other schools of Europe that it's not a great thing to hate those who must stand with us against _them_. They don't use the house system in America at all, did you know? I've looked at brochures from several schools there, even colleges and Universities . . . no mention of houses of any sort!"

"But their students are of lower intelligence and mental stamina."

Percy scoffed. "Compared to Japan. Yeah. Not meaning to be biased, but Asians are just innate geniuses."

"They . . . make connections differently. It has to do with their language and the effects it has upon the human brain." He paused. "Maybe the influence of green tea, as well. But all this is beyond the fact."

"Right. Well, another reason is . . . well, different people have different mixes of qualities. I mean, I was really puzzled when I was sorted into Gryffindor with the rest of my family—I've never thought of myself as brave, and always have thought myself more industrious and intellectual than foolhardy. I had my heart set upon Ravenclaw, once I came to learn who was in it and why. The Sorting Hat never even suggested it to me; it just thought, 'Weasley! A smart one, too! Gryffindor!' If I had known better at the time, I would have suggested _strongly _that I should go into Ravenclaw."

He paused again after this lengthy recital. "But, you know," he mused soberly, "There really is only a very fine line between Slytherin and Gryffindor. But, of course, of the two, who is the Sorting Hat—the embodiment of Godric himself—going to choose to go into Gryffindor? The less afflicted, the more outgoing, the more bold and students most likely to succeed in life. And, do you know, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs join Slytherins in their disdain for the Gryffindors, only much more cautiously and quietly. For, who wants to invoke the wrath of the school bullies?"

"They are indeed often rude, crude, and socially unacceptable in finer company," agreed Snape, "But they get away with it nonetheless."

"And, I mean, Harry himself was supposed to be a Slytherin. They were discussing it over the summer, and I happened to overhear. The Sorting Hat really thought Harry would make a great Snake, but he was so averse to Malfoy's mistreatment of him at Madame Malkin's or something that he desperately did not want to be with the other."

Snape's eyebrows shot up in mild disbelief. "That is astounding. I never would have thought . . ."

His mind surged with the possibility that Potter almost had been accepted into his own house.

"And, I mean, I never was friends with anyone in my own year in Gryffindor, actually," admitted Percy. "But I got on swell with Ravenclaws and—to the twins' anger—I was very good friends with one Slytherin."

He said _one _in such a way that Snape could suspect no more but . . . well, Percy said it in the same way Severus would pronounce 'Lily'. The potions master quickly took the hint. "Not Miss Clearwater? I was certain she was-"

"-The one I speak of was _almost _my girlfriend, Professor, but because of our opposite houses, our relationship remained completely platonic."

Snape pondered for a moment. "Garba Benderwick?"

He detected a slight delighted flush to Percy's cheeks as he made the suggestion. "No, no, I won't tell you her name," the boy said too quickly, thus affirming Snape's suspicions of a long time ago. The ghost smirked but remained quiet.

"But, I mean, you must understand that better than anyone else, Professor . . . it's kind of common knowledge that you had a 'thing' for Potter's mum, who was a Gryffindor."

Of course, on the worst day since his death, _everyone _found need to mention Lily Evans!

Without a word, Snape stared stonily ahead of him. Percy, recognizing his taboo, retracted hastily.

"Anyways, so there's a lot of reasons the houses should be eliminated, and I would take it as a great favor if you would consider the idea, Professor."

"I must think about it," replied Snape demurely, setting his shoulders straighter in an attempt to clear his mind. "It would be very disruptive to do so after . . . oh, I believe Hogwarts' 1000th anniversary is coming close, now. I admit I am halfway inclined to dismiss all of this as the excited radical perspective of a rebellious youth—no offense, Mr. Weasley, all of us feel so at one point or another—but, then . . . without the young Jacobites, there would not have been such an amazing feat as the French Revolution, so I wonder . . ."

Did Percy discover the purest path of truth, might he possibly be right?

"I believe that I myself must mull over this, Mr. Weasley."

Percy grinned. "I've stumped you, haven't I? That's probably a rare thing."

"Rather," confessed Snape. "Is this level of degradation where the rest of the world normally finds itself?"

Percy found another laugh within him, but as he erupted it elicited some fastidious glares from his family members nearby.

"They all hate me, you know," he murmured savagely. "Most of them can't forgive me for what I 'did to mum'. It's stupid and kidlike to hold such grudges like that."

Snape found an amount of color rising to his obviously pallid cheeks and ears, but this went unheeded by the younger wizard.

"I mean, there's a lot of us who have done worse. Uncle Fred literally scared a man to death, Cousin Hederna has attempted suicide three times in six years, and Grandmother Popinjay almost drowned her neighbor's daughter last May on purpose. And Cousin McGyver, too, claims that he ate his dog." As he spoke, Percy gestured to each of the subjects in question, and Snape glanced at them from afar.

"But, of course, none of them have ever done anything so far to hurt their family, and they all loathe me for it."

"I have already given my best advice," Snape coolly recapitulated, "Leave this god-forsaken hell-hole of an island. Oh," he added, "I suppose a lot of wizards were simply too scared to stay in England for the war, and very sensibly left. I never considered the option, for I was too fully ingrained even at the beginning of the second civil war, but many were not as tied down as I was. All of them, combined with those in Azkaban and those in a state of deadness must make a pretty number indeed." (4)

Minerva, at this point, swept past Snape, grabbing at his phantasmal arm.

"We're going to see Ronald," she said softly. Snape saw Mr. and Mrs. Weasley walking before them, and decided that soon they all would find their measly little lives greatly enriched by an exceptionally emotional visit with a crazy teenager.

Ron lay in his bed, under the influence of some tranquilizing spell, pale and almost lifeless. (3) Mrs. Weasley rushed forward first, scooping her child into her arms.

"Mum, it's all right," the boy said rationally, but made no attempt to free himself. Snape noticed the dramatic change from three days prior, but with skepticism.

"Where's 'Mione?" asked the boy perilously, "Where is she? I want her. She needs to know I'm all right. And Harry. Where's . . ."

However, his words died as he fell into a stupor of contemplation. Eyes glazing over, his pupils darted around the room from face to face.

"Snape!" he exclaimed hoarsely as he noticed the ghost. "Why's that old bat here?"

Yet he seemed not so angry as he ought to, as though he felt comfortable with the idea of his old potions master there, and the epigram of 'old bat' seemed more as a term of endearment than anything else. _How strange indeed_.

"Like the rest of us, Mr. Weasley, Professor Snape is concerned with your welfare," McGonagall explained patiently, but Ron's mind seemed to speed at a hundred kilos a minute.

"The psychic says I'm getting better," he expostulated with a frantic shine to his eyes. "Much better. Better enough to see Hermione. Where is she? I have things to tell her that I can't tell anyone else, really."

He coughed, then demanded again, "I'm better! Really! I never was even sick! I have to go back to school and get 'Mione. I promised her I'd . . ." Again, he broke off with a shrug, this time with a funny twist to his lip and a wink at Snape. Disconcerted, the ghost shuddered.

This train of thought brought Ron to a new station, and suddenly the boy's temperament became more vengeful. "Hermione's at Hogwarts with just Harry around, the bastard."

"Language, boy, language," hushed his mother softly, still cradling him, "But they're perfectly fine."

"Merlin! I knew it! I knew it!" Ron sat up straight, knocking his mother off balance so that she abruptly let go of him. "I knew it!" he declared again. "Harry's always wanted her, and now the poor dear is so lonely she probably will—no, wait, he'll force her to let him fuck her!" His face compressed in an expression of fury so terrible that his own mother retreated, slowly.

McGonagall made a motion to Mr. Weasley, who ducked out of the room, a bit shaken. Evidentially, they intended to summon Hermione here.

Ignoring them, the boy shivered and said in a low voice,"This is all part of _his_ plan. This is all part of _his_ plan."

Finding the need to imitate the headmistress' ability to command without words, he beckoned to Snape to approach with a swift motion. Warily, Snape followed the boy's silent command, and the boy straightened to whisper in the transparent ear.

"You're the only one I can trust, Professor, because you're the only one who's never tried to be nice to me. They killed you, too, even though they made it look like whats-his-name did it. It all makes complete sense now, to me. Harry hated you, and you died. He hated all sorts of other people, and they all died. He's now trying to go after my family because they stand in the way of his wanting Hermione—they know how I love her, and don't want him to steal her from me. He's slowly destroying Ginny by leading her on, and he thinks he's destroying me by sending me here to this place for no reason. You've got to help me, Professor. We never got on when you were alive, but we're both victims, now, of the same Harry Potter. You must help me. Not for my sake, really, but for Hermione. She doesn't understand what's going on, what Harry's really after, even when I tell her that he wants her so bad that he's trying to destroy my entire family."

Though desperate for breath, Ron plunged onwards, as though he memorized this entire spiel. Snape listened, knowing consciously that the boy based his claims off delusions made by an inchoate mind, but he found himself almost willing to believe Ronald's words.

"I know something happened when they were alone together—he put her under some sort of confundment spell or other to keep her from seeing what his real game was. They're all plotting, though. It's the whole word on the side of Harry Potter," Ron ranted. "They all know about what he's scheming at, building me up until, one day, he dashes everything I am to the ground, to put me out of the way until he can get Hermione. You know how rich he is—that's how he's got everybody under his thumb like . . . like tweezers. They do his dirty work for him, and he tells them how to do it. He's bribing them!"

"Is he really wealthy enough to bribe the world aside from me, then? How much, would you say, we were missing out on?" Snape felt mildly ashamed for such an acidic comment to a deranged boy, but could not help himself.

"Yes, but it's just money. You know what his dad did for a living?"

Snape snorted. "Yes, he was a loafer who occasionally showed his face a Quidditch try-outs in professional leagues. Never made it on any teams."

"Of course he wouldn't. He had to _look _like he was in the background!" growled the invalid. "He couldn't be out there in the public eye like that! You know, I've heard a lot about what Harry's dad did to you when you were schoolmates, and Harry's doing the same things to me."

"Hardly," replied Snape with a supercilious toss of his head, but Ron did not listen.

"He's stealing my girl, Snape. He's stealing my girl and trying to kill me."

"That's _Professor _to you, boy," sneered Severus, trying to show his disregard for the boy's wild statements, "And I hardly doubt that he's 'trying to kill' you, much less 'steal' Miss Granger 'from' you."

"He _is!_ But no one believes me!" The boy began to shed tears at this point. Snape cut a glance behind him at the onlookers, who could hear nothing of this conversation except an occasional vehement word. Mrs. Weasley looked drawn and deflated. McGonagall had he arm around the tried mother in a firm yet maternal gesture. Percy replaced Mr. Weasley's presence in the room, and hovered nervously in a separate corner.

"No, no, I believe you," lied Snape quickly. He needed to derive as much information as possible from the boy to assist in the diagnosis. "Does . . . does anyone else know about what you have discovered besides Hermione and myself?" he queried cautiously. "One should think that if all this was really happening, someone with more of an intellectual acumen than yourself would have perceived it by now?"

"Anyone who could is either confunded or imperioed, except for you because you're a ghost and stuff. And do you know," Ron leaned forward even more, brushing Snape's barely visible hair away from his ears so that the ghost might better hear, "I think Harry was the one who bribed Percy into leaving my family in the first place because he wants to hurt my family so much."

Snape noticed with his peripheral vision that Percy, hearing his name in their whispering, appeared restless and fidgety.

"Why would Harry want to do that?"

It only seemed natural for Snape to use the Socratic method with the raving boy. "Has not your family's member displayed an inordinate kindness, love and affection to Potter that he so needed after his trials with his aunt and uncle?" (When Albus learned of the Dursleys' abusing Harry so, he went on a rampage so magnificently malevolent that no teacher in Hogwarts Castle at the time escaped knowledge of the situation beyond their interest. Snape, though he least wanted to know of the boy's sufferings, heard the brunt of the great wizard's 'If only I had known, I'd have's and 'I should have done's.) "Your family has done nothing wrong to Harry, as far as I can see, and has done nothing to warrant his desire to hurt you for a mere girl, surely."

"He was almost sorted into Slytherin!" Ron whispered hoarsely. "No offense, Professor, but you've never been the most considerate of people, and the same goes for the rest of your house. The only reason Harry did not go into Slytherin because he was against the idea from meeting Malfoy someplace before Hogwarts sorting."

"But what, pray, does that mean?"

"It means that Slytherins are Harry's people. And, you know better than most, that Slytherins are not nice people. Hence Harry's really evil side is showing, but under the table, so to speak. Our being good to him makes no difference. I think he's just keeping a grudge that he's had against me for a longer time, this only made worse by our love for the same amazing woman."

Snape found himself a bit puzzled. "What would he hold against you? What is this other grudge?"

"I don't know!" exclaimed Ronald, upset. "I can't bloody know, that's the worst of it! There's nothing I can do about it, either!" The boy trembled, and breathed with heavy sobbing.

"I . . ." Snape began, unsure what to do, say, or propose. "I believe that you should rest, Mr. Weasley," he suggested, pained. "You should rest, and not let these things plague your mind."

"But what else can I do but worry?" wailed Ron in a whisper--quite a feat, actually. "They'll be in here with the press anytime, aurors everywhere, come to arrest me for something or another. It doesn't matter what, they'll find something stupid I did and make it into a legal case. I'll be taken to Azkaban and, alone, Hermione would forget me and fall in love with Harry! And my parents will lose all of their money, and my sister will be forced to kill herself because she's probably pregnant by now, and Oh Merlin!" the boy lamented, his sobs racking his body.

All in the room stood, wordless and unhappy. Snape felt an incomprehensible emotion settle upon him, a mixture of pity and despair, the same feelings one might regard in the presence of a dog hit by a hapless motor as it struggled for its last breath. He forced himself to keep his eyes trained on Ronald's and, gently, he seeped into the boy's mind for a look-see.

Within the boy's mind, utter chaos reigned. A book danced between an image of a terrier and a pair of glasses, hazarding between the two in continual erratic movements. Like the interior of a kaleidoscope, the vision posted itself several times around his mind in dazzling honeycomb fashion. Mirrors flashed, prisms glinted, and occasionally other objects such as potions, memories of random words, and bright galleons made appearances. Though fascinated, Snape could see the place's disarray.

A fitful yanking, however, drew Snape from the boy's mind. A man in a waxed black robe and a mask shaped like a bird's head stood over the bed, dropping a wide-brimmed oilcloth hat upon the side table. (2)

"Physic Drosselmeyer, I presume?" asked the dead potions master, wrinkling his nose even though he could not smell the musk and cloves commonly used in the mask of the typical psychic.

"Don't bother me," replied the psychic angrily, adjusting the crystal eyes of his mask until he could see into the boy's eyes in a fierce imitation of Snape. The dead potions master's lip curled in despise as he recognized the man's abilities in occulmency a great deal less satisfactory than his own.

After a moment, the psychic turned to the ghost. "You made him worse. Half an hour ago, his mind was not moving as fast as it is now."

"I can't believe that I-" protested Snape, but felt a sprightly figure with bushy hair whip through his presence. Watching as the girl foolishly threw herself upon the boy, Mr. Weasley succeeded in his quest to bring Hermione.

"Oh, Ronald! You horrid, horrid boy!"

She began to cry unabashedly on her lover's shoulder.

"Fred and I want to come in," came a voice at the door rather loudly. "May we?"

"I'll go," Snape volunteered, not eager to deal with _two _deranged teenagers. Though McGonagall protested feebly as he went out the door, he floated out of the sickroom, past George Weasley who muttered anxiously to his invisible brother, and to the floo. Only then did he remember the predicament, that he could not travel alone.

Fortunately for him, someone else waited by the visitors' fireplace. Ginny Weasley sat, shaking, looking for all the world as though she wanted to come to tears.

"Miss Weasley? Are you in distress?"

_What a stupid question._

In response, she nodded with a definite lack of vigor. "Don't . . . feel well. Collapsed, can't get the floo powder."

_Now she's ill too_.

"I shall take you back to Hogwarts, Miss Weasley." He picked up a pinch from the box of powder sitting on the mantel and helped her to her feet. The solidification process began a bit more slowly than usual, possibly because only he of the two felt any wish to be kind or anything close to loving, but Ginny seemed too taken with chills and fatigue to notice that they waited for almost three minutes before stepping into the fireplace._

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_(1) Entomological explanation: Physic, as in a Doctor of Physics. Since Pomfrey did not know what a doctor was in previous chapters, I needed a more creative term to denominate someone with more medical knowledge than the typical Healer—because, come on, schools employ nurses, not full-on doctors. So I looked to Chaucer (who lived in the 1400s, medieval era, which is where the wizard world mainly separated from the Muggle after the witch burnings and such) for inspiration, and recalled that he wrote of a 'Doctor of Physics' when he wrote, in The Canterbury Tales, of a man who practiced the medical profession. My view is that the term or title of 'doctor' had been lost to the general public of the Wizarding world, as the 'physic' part of the title has lost its usage in the Muggle (our) world. Except in the word 'physician', but that's not the common term to refer to a person with a doctorate. So yeah. That's what a Physic is. Just the equivalent of a doctor. That's it. _

(2) Thanks to my honors ancient civilizations class, I learned about the funny get-up of the medieval Plague doctors. I absolutely had to use it in this story. See this link for more information: w w w . h i s t o r y o n t h e n e t . c o m / S t u a r t s / p l a g u e d o c t o r . h t m

(3) For anyone who cares, Ron's schizophrenic. If I haven't made that clear. And yes, he is actually acting in accordance with the symptoms, because I know from dealing with people thus afflicted.

(4) Thanks to excessivelyperky for all the help on Percy's analysis, she brought up some good points that I included (though not verbatim).

(5) By the way, sorry these notes are out of order from the text . . . too lazy to change them because I've been working on typing this for hours and I really want to watch The Piano before we send it back to Netflix.

_THANKS FOR READING!_

Please rate and review!

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	22. Journalism Club and a Piano Squib

_'Ello!_

_Whee, we're at chapter 22! And the 22__nd__ of Dec. (the day I post this) is my birthday! (Yeah, I'm young, so I'm the kind that wants the entire world to know I'm one year more distanced from the status of 'child'.)  
Ahem.  
Thanks to the FOUR REVIEWS I got last chapter. __**cough cough. **__Yeah. Four. From my lovely loyal reviewers Excessivelyperky, Duj, and Ara Catin! Plus from Zafaran, who, although not a consistent reviewer, I appreciate very much nevertheless._

_I was listening to Peter, Paul, and Mary today. _Where have all my reviewers gone . . . long, long passing . . . . where have all my reviewers gone . . . long, long ago . . . _I think there are 38 people who have set this story on alert. If only HALF of you reviewed, I would be more motivated to get more chapters done faster. . . and it'd be a sort of birthday gift to me if you did. Come on all you unresponsive readers, it's the holiday season. Show some cheer and goodwill to the authors who spend their time spinning tales for you. (And that goes for everyones', not just my own stories.) But, without further ado . . ._

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A Glorious Chapter 22 

" . . . Pass the scissors, please."

Luna held a bundle of parchment in her hand, each sheet printed with either an article or a photograph in black-and-white. Without disturbing the rippling flow of his scribbling quill, Severus Snape—the only potions master ghost of Hogwarts—shoved the required utensil across the table.

"Mm, thankth." Miss Lovegood grabbed an assortment of parchment corners between her teeth and began to jab enthusiastically at the unfortunate specimen in her hand.

"Is that a habit of yours?" Still, the pen moved without a pause as he asked.

"Rather." Luna finished chopping out the picture needed and looked about herself for some paste.

"That explains why sometimes your essays are rather nibbled at times," muttered the potions master complacently.

Her gasp of a giggle, so girlish and innocuous, refreshed and calmed him. In any other child it would sound infantile and invasive, but Luna's rather detached air made it celestial and almost holy; a maiden angel touching the surface of a smooth lake, her white fingertips at the meniscus creating a _plink! _asthe water ripples in gentle waves into the unknown.

_Fourteen hours after the conclusin-_

Damn, in the midst of 'his' so-far-perfect article for the _Hogwarts_ _Herald_, he made a spelling error. He vigorously smeared the still-wet 'n' and formed it into a barely-legible 'o', followed by a rather bold new 'n'. No good ever came of self-distraction.

Luna, successfully discovering the bottle of paste by almost spilling it with her elbow, righted it with a sigh.

"I would say, 'tis a bit sad that no one else came to this first meeting."

Snape grunted, musing for a moment over how he managed to not make mistakes when dual-tasking in talk with Luna yet could not when lost in his own pondering. "Not sad, I don't think. Would you _really_ prefer a bevy of bouncy first-years bombarding about, creating more messes and dictating more strife than a kneazle with the flu?"

"I didn't say I would. I just . . . well, it would be reassurance that I was doing _something _right to salvage the reputation I've made for myself." Without a hint of self-pity, she continued rationally, "I'm sure many people aren't here because I'm the one who told them about it. 'Oh, Loony's involved in it. Let her pursue her little project alone, why should we go?' Yes, that's how they talk, and there's no denying it. They don't even bother to shut up when I come around, if that's what they were talking about. I come in, and they cast a glance at me and just go on like I wasn't there."

Snape laid his pen down and turned deliberately to look at the girl who poured her heart before him. Her elbows on the table, chin settled on her fists, she stared wistfully into a corner.

"Dear girl," he pleaded softly, in the greatest amount of consolation he could offer, "do not trouble yourself worrying about them. Friends are ephemeral, as are peoples' opinions. All things shall pass eventually. You will have a thousand chances to prove yourself yet. Waste no time in lamenting an unrequited love for humanity; I made that mistake in life."

Luna's ringlets fell to a new position as her head changed direction, and her deep blue eyes penetrated his own dark ones.

"Out of curiosity, do you still worry in death?"

_So insightful, this child, yet so few people to appreciate her talent!_

"I . . . I am not sure how to answer that."

"Answer as best you can. I don't mind if it's a bit mixed-up."

His ghastly ghost's eyelids lowered as he thought, carefully, painfully.

"Yes and no," the potions master murmured, "I worry and grieve as you or anyone else would . . . but in that there is a certain expectation that . . . that, in time, I shall come never to worry. Have you ever observed the other ghosts upset about the abominations of our time?"

"Myrtle," suggested the blond girl.

"True," he conceded, "But even now, her vengeance towards Tom is satisfied in his ultimate death, as far as I have heard." He found himself eager to change the subject from his own self. "Apparently, _she _knew all throughout the time intermittent the two wars that Voldemort was not dead, but only Dumbledore listened to her ravings with the seriousness that befitted her claim. Her evidence making her important enough for him to disregard her habitual flooding of the restrooms and such! It was only a sort of indeterminate magical connection—Riddle raped her before her death, thus part of himself (however small!) was in her, and somehow she knew through that influence."

"But all that is of no consequence, now," Luna gently reminded.

"True," he responded, nodding regally. "But aside from her, do you see the ghosts caring very much what happens in the world of the living? They all have attained a sense of aloofness, despondence, and irrelevance, except to their relatives or descendants. They know, in a type of learned wisdom, that everything changes and goes with time, and yet they themselves will never grow any more different. Their spirits survive eons of time without any real influence upon it—they hide away in their hole of Eden, sometimes emerging to spook students or carry out mindless jobs set to them by members of the living class who have an amount of importance to them. They do not, however, care very much for anything but what happened in their lifetimes, or the people except those who lived in their lifetimes."

Luna's eyes gazed at him, too sad for him to continue seeing. His own focus drifted to the wooden grain table at which they worked.

"You don't have to be like them, if that's what you think."

He looked at her once more, interested. "Why do you say that? Why should I be the exception?"

"Well, my father always said—no matter the context involving Tigglbinger hunting in Germany—that the forewarned was the forearmed. If you are intelligent and perceptive enough to notice this trend so common to those of your state, you know to look for the signs of it, and prevent it from happening to you."

"But I do not feel that . . . oh, blast it, I don't know what or how to think!" His frustration escalated to the point that he hit the table in anger.

"You can be an exception, Severus."

She laid her hand on his fisted phantasmal one in comfort as he glared menacingly into space. He began to solidify, though slowly enough that it seemed more natural than usual.

"You can be an exception and be more than they . . . are, I suppose that's the tense you'd use with them. They are either lackadaisical or nitwits, but, either way, they aren't proving themselves to the world of the living. They have, as you said, virtually no influence on us."

He did not raise his head, but shook it a bit until his hair fell into his face in an unconscious urge to hide.

"Luna, do you believe I could actually do better off in this secondary world than in the real?"

She smiled slightly, not enough to make her teeth visible, but her lips stretched evenly. "I suppose you've been puzzling over this for quite a while, have you not?"

"Rather."

"Well," she paused for a brief thought, "I think so. There's no one really to tell you what you must or must not do anymore."

"What a relief _that_ is!"

"Indeed," she nodded, ignoring his slight sarcasm, "And you do not have to worry about such menial things as . . . oh, taxes, the Ministry, etc. Plus, you're in line to be one of the greatest headmasters of Hogwarts that has ever been."

"You know, though, that's not happening in a thousand years," he snarled ungraciously.

Unruffled, Luna nodded. "Of course. McGonagall won't live another thousand years."

As angry as he remained, he could not suppress at least a cough.

"She won't, surely. But someone else will show up immediately, if not beforehand, to take the opportunity away from me. That's what's always happened in my life."

"But you're not alive any more."

Bitter, he looked up at her. "You're quite right. I sometimes forget that myself."

"Do you like that? Which is better, being thought of as dead, or alive?"

He pondered. "That is a point I have meditated a decent while, yet I still cannot determine a straight answer. I appreciate that you act as though I were alive to my face, even though we are in a strange sort of relationship that would not have been brought about if I were alive. Yet, when people like Minerva see me as alive . . . it rather irks. Often, she lapses into a frame of mind that I am just what I have always been to her, and it seems a bit as though I've been taken for granted." He paused again. "Oh, I don't know, Luna, I don't know at all."

They sat in silence for some time. Then Luna's warm hand patted his scarred bony one, and she turned back to her cuttings for the newspaper.

"Strange," she murmured, "We're such a quaint set of people." Her melodious laugh could not help but make the weary older personage want to smile even as he faded into his usual transparent state.

A curt knock came from the door of the abandoned Charms classroom where the Journalism Club met.

"Come in," Luna called in a voice that sounded nearly clairvoyant.

Hermione Granger entered the room.

"Good day professor, Luna," she stated, looking at them curiously. A worn glint in her eye warned the others that not all was well with her, however, and she plunked herself down in the nearest available chair. "I assume this is not a scrap-booking party but the Journalism Club, correct?"

"Yes." It took an intense amount of effort for Snape to throw his hair back over his shoulder with a toss, to face Hermione without a lilt of constriction in his tone.

"Do you want to help?" asked Luna excitedly.

"Why the hell not?"

Snape blinked with some surprise at this lapse of language from the braniac, but he dismissed it by observing her bagged eyes and dark bruised sockets. She possibly needed some diversion from worrying over her all-too-demanding boyfriend.

"Come, we need an article about Filch's latest investment in a 'vax-hume cleaner'," Luna eagerly decided, shoving a notebook and quill into her friend's hand. "Now mind you don't do a Skeeter on us, bring the real facts. How does the machine work? Is it of Muggle descent? What products is it made of? Does Filch approve? Does Mrs. Norris approve?"

Hermione'e laugh rankled the sympathetic senses to evoke an extraordinary amount of pity.

"You are certainly a devious and thorough investigator, my dear," Hermione commented in compliment. She rubbed her left eye with one hand, then tucked the pen and parchment under her arm. "All right, I'll go."

Snape privately hoped the work would do her good, and reminded himself to assign a few more essays than usual that coming winter break. The girl needed more to devote her mind upon, to drive her from a world of sorrow into a world of knowledge. _Merlin knows I needed the same at her age._

After Granger left, Severus laid down his quill again.

"How are you and Mr. Longbottom getting along?"

Luna's eyes sparkled with the very cliché of delight. "Oh, all right, I suppose," she murmured in reply, but her expression testified that she spoke an understatement.

"Sprout raves about his talents at virtually every meal, to the boredom of many including myself. Apparently, you've caught yourself one of the rare virtuosos of herbology."

"Yes, but he's not big-headed about it. That's the good thing. He explains it away as just an inheritance of his 'aunt's green thumb.'"

"Though Sprout extols him for being the most promising student she's had since the thirties. I do believe he does not realize the extent of his abilities."

She smiled. "He's better than some people, in that case."

"Who, me?"

"No, no, no. James Potter." Her eyes danced again. "That's a good thing, though, that he wasn't the first person who came to your mind."

Snape paused. "Yes, I suppose it is."

They both turned to their articles again, but then Luna's voice penetrated the silence.

"When can we visit Dobby's grave with Winky?"

Snape started; he nearly had forgotten about his promise to the houself.

"This Sunday, perhaps? Are you free?"

"Yes. Do you think I could bring . . ."

"Yes, bring your boyfriend if you like. Be sure to ask Winky if she would mind, though, first."

They again set to focus on their work, but, in an amount of frustration, Snape dashed his quill to the desk with a flourish.

"Damn it all, Luna, we need more people on this cast of writers. So far, I need seven pseudonyms."

Calmly, Luna suggested, "I can make them up. How about . . . Damien Mudgepark, Flambo Dooteriech, Aron Splicer, Liss Orth, Ella Telanophoori, Rook Gamewink and . . . Nacrunch Saxon?"

"You made those up right now?"

"Of course!"

He gave a short barking laugh.

"Really, you are unbelievable."

"I have had lots of practice . . . how many foreign correspondents do you _think _the Quibbler actually has?"

With a shudder, Snape shook his black tresses in attempt to shake the image of Xenophilius and Luna spending their entire summer composing strange articles of nonsensical material. Altogether, he found the idea much more realistic than he wished.

The month of September had passed relatively quickly. Habits settled into ritualistic, everyone became systematic to their individual schedules, and old traditions emerged once again.

One of these was the custom of taking Friday Night at Aberforth's. Snape and Filch, in days of old, would leave Mrs. Norris in front of a cozy fire and disappear for an evening off in Hogsmede. It was not every weekend, obviously, but regularly enough that they never failed to at least make one visit to the Hog's Head every month.

Filch found it hard to suggest the idea to Snape at first . . . he did not know what to say, actually, after the last experience with The Brew and such . . . but Snape perceived his meaning after about five minute of blundering about in his own muck of words.

"Merlin, man, why didn't you just say you _wanted_ to _go _to the _bar_? Come on, let's go."

The night not so fair as they liked, though, they did not stop to invite Hagrid as they often did—the half-giant never wanted to come when there was a chance of rain invading the nests of his blast-ended skrewts or whatnot.

They entered the bar at about six, just as Aberforth was shooing out a multitude of goats to open for human customers. One, in a fierce cavalcade, dove into Filch's shin.

"Oww eeeeee!" exclaimed the squib in pain, soon hopping up and down on one leg, hugging his other afflicted appendage to himself.

"Be glad that goat wasn't any taller," suggested Snape coyly, but at that moment Aberforth approached with his broom.

"Aye, I'm glad to see you men. Sorry about the goats. But there'll be a great treat tonight, just you see."

He ushered them to their favorite nook, blissfully making no comment on Snape's state of deadness.

"Standard for you, Filch?"

"Aye."

"Snape? Brew?"

"No, thanks," the potions master replied carefully. "Is there any evaporated Ogden's about? The Brew did not settle so well with me last I had it."

"I can get you some evaporated Morbin-Bleason's . . . it's not so flavorful as the Brew, or even Ogden's, but . . ."

"I don't much care, just please reserve the other damn stuff for the Bloody Baron, if you would."

"Sure thing."

He soon brought Filch's foaming Guinness and a shot of evaporated liquid for Snape.

"You men haven't been 'round in a while,"Aberforth prompted, pulling himself a chair. "What's the catch?"

"Just busier than usual, I expect," Snape shrugged, then downed the liquor in a single draw. "So, what's the surprise you mentioned?"

"Ah, but she'll be here any minute," the older man wheezed with a sly grin. "She's a right treat to look at, and a right good musician, too."

After a mutual sideways glance, Filch and Snape burst into laughter.

"You're bringing a musician into this place?" choked Filch, spitting a mouthful of beer back into his glass. "A _female _musician?"

"Yes, by Merlin!" fumed the indignant Aberforth. "It'll be a grand thing for business! Didn't you see the sign outside before you came in?"

"Erm. No. We were a bit distracted by your entourage of four-legged beasts."

The front door, at this point, jingled, and a few tired customers entered.

"Be right back," Aberforth promised, and meandered to assist the new faces.

Snape, in curiosity, surveyed the room to find the stage for the eagerly-anticipated 'female musician'. His search soon was requited, rather obviously, with a large grand piano positioned in a corner.

_A beautiful thing, _he decided. _Thought it ought to have more light focused on it._

It shone with all the sleekness and depth of a well-transfigured silver platter. A few nicks and dings to its surface were inconsequential, not detracting from the estimable grandeur of the actual piano. A sign posed against it on a wooden prop, declaring to all the world that the girl wonder, "Polly Harmonic is playing here tonight! Half-past six!" Desperately, he felt the urge to throw down the veil of a poster and try his best on the keyboard, but remembered that he really was never a very good musician himself. Besides, Filch had begun to voice his thoughts as his beer began to settle in his brain, and it would have been very tactless indeed to simply drop the poor man in the midst of his confessions of love for the 'poor Madame Umbrage'. (Not that they were _new _confessions, at any rate!)

Snape continued to listen, with half an ear, to Filch's lamentations of _oh, how I wish I could just see her again _and _oh, but you should remember her bosoms—how voluptuous and scrumptious they looked _and _oh, but she is the only woman in the world who would tolerate and even love my Mrs. Norris as I do! _The lonely man had been utterly smitten with the woman since her entrance into the Hogwarts Castle years ago, and probably was the only one unhappy to see her go again. Although Snape detested Umbrage, he was not of the temperament to criticize a man who declined to tease _him _for loving a dead woman! For, indeed, of all the men and women at Hogwarts, Filch was among the few privy to the secret of Snape's affections for Lily Evans before it became common knowledge.

The door jangled again at this point, admitting a dark-haired, wispy young creature of perhaps thirty or thirty-three. Her eyes, blue and straightforward, drew to the floor as Aberforth rushed forwards to greet her. A sadly large nose seemed out of place on her pale china-skinned face, and her long fingers tightened around a huge briefcase, presumably of music, in her arms. With a determined nod, she stalked to the piano as Aberforth gestured, and threw open the magical top to better allow the sound to resonate. Two minutes of light preparation, shuffling music and whatnot, and then the girl seated herself primly on the bench to play.

An extraordinary sensation filled Severus as she began to play. He knew the first song she played, from somewhere he could not remember. From the opening chords, his memories surged as he attempted to place it, delving within his past remembrances. It reminded him of something . . . had he heard it at Madame Puddifoot's with Lily? At that carnival they went to when they were children? Did Lucius play it on his wireless?

Then, at once, it came together in a flash. Sylvia.

Severus' mother had a second child with her husband some time after the horrible accident of her first son. The fruits of the attempts were proved much more favorable than the first attempt at children, from the perspective of his parents. His mother always wanted a girl, and his father only wanted a Muggle, and, Severus being neither of which, made him quite worse off than the second child. Born a squib, Sylvia became the spoiled young creature that was always the bane of Severus' summer holidays. Unable to attend Hogwarts for obvious reasons, her father entrusted himself, until his death, to perform as her educator. He was not of the most scholarly type, however, and Severus maintained that it was this that brought Sylvia to her bitter end. After sending his mother to a sanatorium in his fifth year, the poor girl was left virtually to her own devices except an old houself named Lola. When her brother returned home the summer of his adulthood and discovered his little sister engaged in indecent activities with the neighbor boy, well . . . Snape had thrown her to her own devices. The last he had heard of her since then was a single letter, pleading for money on behalf of an unborn child without a father. He sent her as much as he could, but with the warning that she would find no more sustenance from him. She never wrote him since.

Yet, now, here she was, plain as day, singing love songs and somber ditties to an increasingly-full room of drunkards.

"Snape? Snape? Come man, snap out of it!"

Filch, unable to shake the shoulder of the ghost for obvious reasons, was clapping loudly in front of Severus' nose. Snape looked down and saw two more empty shotglasses added to his collection of one.

"Sorry, Argus, lost in reminisces," he apologized, suppressing a hiccup. "I think I want to tip the piano player," he suggested, rising as steadily as he could muster.

"Take a few knuts from me, as well. The girl deserves it, she's jolly good. Too good for his old place. I'll bet Aberforth's not paying her half as much as he ought."

Snape nodded in agreement, scooping into his hand the assortment of change that the caretaker of Hogwarts supplied him and surreptitiously adding a galleon of his own. Then, gingerly, he made his way over to the piano player.

_Young blossoms in December_

_Trees blooming in winter_

_A beautiful miracle_

_Only matched by you_

_New tulips at Christmas_

_Fresh roses at New Year's_

_A beautiful miracle_

_Only matched by you_

She was playing something he never had heard before, but it appealed to him very much. The sweet melody, the modulation occasionally into C major from A minor, and the simple wording charmed him.

_I would be happy_

_Forever and ever_

_If you would only_

_Accept my hand_

_I would be happy_

_Forever and ever_

_If you would only_

_Accept my hand_

A bit of a repetative chorus there, but the melody changed both times so it was not as bad as it might have been. At this point, he had reached the piano, close enough that he could touch the locks of he girl so closely related to him, whom he had not seen in so long.

_Orange blossoms in January_

_Primrose budding too_

_A beautiful miracle_

_Only matched by you_

_All the flowers flowering_

_In the coldest time of year_

_The most beautiful miracle_

_Only matched by you_

She really did inherit their mothers' voice. Eileen Prince's main ambition in entering the Muggle world was to be an operatic singer. Her biggest role was that of Madama Butterfly in the opera of the same name, but she quit the business to marry Tobias the Muggle stagehand.

_I would be happy_

_Forever and ever_

_If you would only_

_Accept my hand_

_I would be happy_

_Forever and ever_

_If you would only_

_Accept my hand_

The song ended, and Snape advanced close enough to deposit the collection of coins into the crystal jar poised invitingly at "Polly Harmonic"'s feet. Startled at the clink, the girl's head turned to look at him. Their eyes met in a bond of common understanding, and, suddenly, two aquiline arms wrapped passionately around his waist.

"Severus!"

_Oh Merlin. She's also inherited mother's emotionalisms as well_.

"Sylvia."

She drew away as suddenly as she had embraced him, realizing that her older brother was unwhole.

"What . . . what happened to you?" she asked hesitantly. "I . . . oh." Her jaw closed tightly as she seemed to remember. "I read about it. I'm . . . I'm sorry."

"I've become used to it," he responded in as brave a tone as he could achieve. "It's not so bad, really."

"I never thought to believe everything I read about you," she entreated. "I mean, you always tried to do what was best for everyone's sakes. I read about the trial in the papers, but knew you would come off innocent—and, even if you didn't, I knew you were. But I never thanked you that time for the money you sent me that time. . . it literally saved my life. I got an abortion with it, bought myself a new piano, and swore never to bother myself with men again in that way."

He shook his head. "You might have come and asked me for your old piano at home. I would have sent it."

"Well, I was a bit abashed. I didn't think it proper to ask, once I saw that your kicking me out of the house was the best way for all concerned."

"I might have shown more pity. I was constricted by jealousy, mainly."

_After all, it's not a pleasant thing to come home after being thwarted in love so hard only to see that the spoiled child who spends her all her days at home has got herself a nice little fellow up her skirt._

"But it helped me, nonetheless."

They simply stared at each other for a moment.

"So, hiring yourself at bars is your sole means of support now?" queried the concerned and slightly tipsy older brother.

"Just my night work. In the day, I clean houses for rich old widows. Every once in a while, one pops off and leaves me a legacy, which is nice. A few more of those, and I'll be able to just play at joints like this."

Thus reminded of her role as performer, she turned back and began to play a song without words.

"Is . . . is it true, how they said you died?"

"Depends on what version you heard."

"The Dark Lord strangled you?"

"No, but you're not terribly far off. His snake bit me."

"Ooh." She paused as a chord faded. "That makes more sense. I didn't believe you would settle for simply being strangled . . . at least, not without a decent fight."

"Most people think the same."

He settled down into an empty chair next to the piano and lay his head on his arms.

"Your playing has got rather better since the days back at Spinner's End."

"Thanks, but I would have expected that." At this point, the song ended, and she began another without changing the music.

"What's this?"

"I don't know, I'm making it up as I go."

"Improvisation. Impressive." Her playing was faultless and seamless. Expertly cut, sewn, and sold with all the benefits of professionalism. His eyelids dropped as he listened, entranced, wondering how this girl seemed so changed from the brat he knew as a teenager.

"You're drunk, aren't you?" Her voice spoke just above a whisper, in between songs.

"I think I might be, a bit. Not very." As if on cue, he felt his body lurch in a hiccup.

"I assumed as much. You wouldn't be talking so openly to me otherwise."

He remained motionless on the table, simply listening to the production of his sister's deft fingers. To think he had neglected his only kin for so many years over a simple issue of her unholy conduct, and she still so talented!

Time passed faster than he expected, and in no time he awoke to Filch's uncoordinated clapping, made in an attempt to wake him. "Polly", or Sylvia as he better knew her, was gathering up her music. Aberforth had his broom out again and was dusting in the most remote locations of the room.

"Come, my man. It's time . . . to be back . . . to the castle." The flesh and blood man pushed forward Snape's chair so far that the ghost felt his stomach heave.

"Merlin, keep a hold of yourself, Filch."

He felt piercing oceanic blue eyes upon him, and he turned to his sister, who waited patiently.

"I had the idea we might part on better terms than before," she hinted.

"Of course," Severus replied, a little shakily. With the utmost gentleness, he took her limp hand and kissed it in as grand a fashion as he could manage.

"My, my, how do you two know each other?" asked Filch a bit obnoxiously.

"Argus, this is my younger sister, Sylvia . . ." Then he realized, he did not know what her current surname was.

"I'm still a Snape, Severus," the young woman replied gracefully.

In brazen stupidity, Filch squinted and looked at the sign still propped against the piano. "Now, but her sign says Polly Harmonic! Don't ye be trying to fool me!"

The siblings could not help but laugh, laugh in a manner so damningly alike that a jury could not doubt their relationship to each other.

"Never mind him, he's out of it," apologized Severus. "Will you come around sometime soon, though?"

"If Mr. Dumbledore will have me, certainly," Sylvia nodded.

Aberforth's voice floated across the room. "That's right, I heard the whole thing. Any sister of Snape's is a sister . . . well, no, a friend of mine. Though you might like to know, he's kept you a damn good secret, Miss Snape."

She shrugged. "My current range of acquaintances know nothing of Severus, either, so that's all right. They think 'the man from the papers' is of no relation to me." With a gleaming smile, she kissed her brother on the cheek as well as her nose would allow, then proceeded towards the door. Filch and Severus followed at a respectful distance. They went their separate ways at the door.

"Let's do keep in better touch, Severus!" she demanded. "I'll try and make it here next Friday."

"I'll probably be here, Merlin willing."

* * *

_Haha. That's about as happy and Christmasy as you're going to get in a story that's still set in September. Haha, just watch and you'll see I shan't get to actual Christmas Break in the story until real-life March. _

_And yes, the whole scene with Sylvia is one I reworked from my fiction, _The Piano Squib. _(It's kinda lower on my page right now, but it's still a work I really like.) It's not at all the same outcome, and not at all the same setting, but I stole the 'Beautiful Miracle'__ song from _Piano Squib _and the whole situation. So yeah. Check it out if you want. _


	23. Fluctuating Emotions

_Mm. Got the best of both worlds this time round. 8 reviews last chapter, and almost all of them were long. :) Yay. I'd like about 15 reviews a chapter, please, once the holidays roll past. Or even 10 reviews a chapter. Really, how many crappy fanfics have you seen with a gazillion reviews saying simply, 'Good job!' or 'I love this!' or the like? Don't you think this fiction deserves at least as much praise? I love long reviews, but if you don't have the time, or don't want to expend the effort, I'm okay with a brief two words! Just so I know I have the approval of one more reader. _

_Enough whinging on my part. Thanks to ,00, duj, Ara Catin, Tia'RaHu, Silverthreads, HaIareaj, excessivelyperky, and elemesnedene for leaving lovely and happy-ifying reviews. :D Hope your Christmas holiday went well, if you're Christian or celebrate it in a secular manner. If you didn't, hope you still found something memorable (either hilarious or touching, not bad) about the whole season. _

* * *

**Chapter 23**

The last Sunday of September 1998 brought rain, crashing on the rooftop of Hogwarts castle with the vile anger and despair of a suicidal plunge into the Rhine. Bearing waterproofs of a strong and resistant sort, a somber and strange assembly emerged from the great doors. A short blond girl held the hand of a hapless house-elf, a tall but pudgy male figure loomed over them both protectively, and behind them all floated the transparent figure of a haggard ghost.

"Might've chosen a better afternoon," muttered Neville bitterly. The poor dear held a handkerchief in his hand, once in a while raising it to his nose with an agonized honk, testimony to his cold in the head.

"Shush, Neville, stop your whinging or we shan't take you with us."

Luna's chastisement instantly sent the herbology apprentice into the realms of abashment.

"Oh, I'll be quiet then," he replied obediently. His gloomy look lightened as the marvelous girl, responding to the sadness in his voice, gave him a dancing smile. Behind them, Snape sighed--partially from jealousy, partially from irritation—though his gesture of despondence did not reach the ears of the uninterested couple.

"Winky is very grateful to Miss Luna, Master Snape and Master Neville," Winky put in timidly, apparently uncomfortable with the silence and the situation in general. "But how are we to leave Hogwarts, might Winky ask?"

"Disapparation, obviously. We simply must get beyond the gates of the school." Snape's acerbic voice cut through the air with finality.

"Master Snape, we might use the house-elf magic that Winky can make," offered the little creature eagerly. "Save the long trip in the rain, we might. And it is the only thing that can pass the wards of Hogwarts."

"I knew that," replied Snape dispassionately. Although he did not consider this course prior to Winky's suggestion, he hated people choosing alternate courses to those he determined. It felt as if they wanted him to look stupid. "But it-"

He found himself saved from creating a cockywhompus reason for his stubbornness by Luna's vivid interruption.

"Oh! No! We mustn't!"

She stopped in her tracks to look into the house elf's eyes.

"Why not? It sounds practical to me." Neville leaned over Luna's shoulder in a manner which, if done by Patrick Wilson over Emmy Rossum, might have suggested stratagem for a kiss. In this situation though, it seemed vaguely innocuous; as terribly cute as a black-and-white photograph of a three-year-old boy and three-year-old girl sitting on a swing holding hands.

"I have some reason . . ." Luna replied absently, hiding behind her typical curtain of indifference as a means of diverting attention. Her head flew to look at the nearby woods. "Ooh, but I think I saw a unicorn not forty yards off! Among those trees!"

"Where?" asked Neville naively, turning away from the conversation to crane his neck. Snape rolled his eyes, not fooled by Luna's decoy. Yet he wondered what disturbed her so about the idea of traveling by elf magic.

He had not tried utilizing his skills as an occulmens for months, not since his days in the living. After the death of dear old Voldy, no one wanted to break through his mind, and almost no one had the capability to do so anyways. Personally, also, he found the very thought to make his stomach hurt dreadfully, bringing back memories of mental struggles between himself and Dumbledore, Lupin, Voldemort, and the miraculous boy-who-lived. The impulse now, however, was stronger than the aversion. He wanted to know what fears inhibited the mind of the girl he trusted and cared for, and realized that she did not want to voice whatever it was in front of her beaux.

"I don't see anything," Snape growled, glancing at Neville, the boy still preoccupied in searching for a sight of a mythical creature gone beyond its usual territory.

"Never mind," Luna shrugged, then walked onwards with Winky. Snape and Neville followed, the latter still attempting to glimpse in the direction for the unicorn even as they promenaded.

Snape decided to take a chance and break into his student and confidant's mind. He knew instinctively it was very unkind and somewhat abusive of her trust, but still went through with the action nevertheless.

_Luna?_

At the forefront of her mind, Luna had been imagining the four of them walking to the Hogwarts gates, but the scene had a few modifications—the skyabsolutely clear and sunny, Neville holding her hand, and a few butterflies fluttering around them. When Snape's presence entered, it was as great an impact as if he had barged into her house, wet and sopping, as she curled by the fire reading a book. Everything in the imagined scene went black and blank, and the girl in real life staggered.

_-Oh my god. What the hell? Snape?_

Neville, like the overprotective and overzealous young boyfriend he was, threw his arm to catch her, even though she already caught her balance again.

"Luna, are you all right?"

Snape instantly regretted his move.

_-Luna, I apologize. I was an imbecile to try this on you without warning._

She shook her head with a slight laugh, regaining her step.

"Yes, Neville, I'm fine . . . I just thought I was hearing voices in my head."

_-Which is essentially the truth. I try not to lie to him, the poor dear. But what's all this about? Why are you in my mind right now?_

Snape breathed a silent sigh of relief. He nearly sacrificed his relationship with Luna right then in a move of rash foolishness.

_-I thank you for taking this in stride. For a moment I feared . . ._

He hated to admit to sentimentality, even to her.

_-Feared what?_

Of course she would ask that!

_- . . . Feared I would lose your best confidence. But never mind. What I was curious about was why you so vehemently were against using the elf's magic. What 'reasons' do you have, specifically? I pray I'm not being too invasive. Merlin knows this method of conversation is testing limits already._

She laughed to herself at this, not a dowdy guffaw but a simple backwards gasp that intimated amusement. Neville noticed it, his eyes trained ardently on her face since her slight fall, but made no motion to react. At least she was not angry. Snape was reminded once again, as he often was when using occumlency, how important seeing the expression on the face of the other object was vital to knowing the true feelings of the other.

_-I don't mind too much, you know. I mean, I knew you were an occulmens and everything, and kinda expected that, one day if I was endangered you might use that skill for communicating. I didn't exactly have this situation in mind, but it works. _

The panicked black background had faded into blurry memories . . . Fleur talking to Luna . . . Harry talking to Luna . . . Hermione talking to Luna . . . Bill Weasley and Fleur Weasley talking to Luna . . . all their voices joined in a badly synchronized chorus of words and phrases that were somewhat disjointed. Sometimes a particular word stuck out here or there. Luna's thoughts spoke in just the sort of voiceover criticized by professors of filmwriting. (1)

_-The last day of his life, you know, Dobby took me, Harry, Hermione, Dean Thomas, and Ron and Mr. Ollivander out of the cellar of the Malfoy's house to Bill and Fleur's place. Not days later, my dad also died . . . he was put in Azkaban for a few days but was sent to Bill and Fleur's after, 'cause our house was blown up, and all. They told him about Dobby, and apparently hearing about a free houself saving his daughter . . . well, it set him off on the crusade the day that he heard about the attack on Hogwarts. After that kind of experience . . . well, I've become rather irrationally scared of houselves. Well, not houselves, but their magic and such . . . my dad instilled a terrible sense of superstition in me that still hasn't been quelled, and probably never will be lost. And you hear all the time about Muggles who refuse to travel on trains and airplanes and such because their relations or friends died on them. I think it's the same sort of thing. No, not quite. It's so strange . . . but I'm trying to cope with it._

Snape frowned.

_-I see. It's not something that can simply be explained away. But yet you are so kind to Winky even if you are partially afraid of her . . . _

It was an question.

_-I'm not really afraid of Winky. Or am I? I'm not sure. Really, I'm not. I suppose I'm trying to conquer my suddenly acquired fear by exposure. But then I'm not sure if it's helping at all, because I know I'm not afraid-_

Neville interrupted with a nervous laugh.

"Eh. Well, we're certainly quiet."

"Indeed," replied Luna, smiling benevolently but firmly not looking at Neville.

_-As I was saying, I know I'm not afraid of Winky, so I'm not sure that this is working at all. But it makes me feel better to imagine that I'm trying to help myself. They say that taking small steps is a good thing._

She paused. Snape proposed a rhetorical enigma that had puzzled him from his youth.

_-Ah, but who is 'they'? Alternately, who are 'they'?_

_-That's the question, isn't it? There are so many who fit that title, yet so few. _

At this point the little group reached the gate, Neville blowing his nose loudly on the by-now-sopping handkerchief and Winky's eyes glazed.

-_This feels a bit deceitful, Severus. To Neville, I mean. Keeping him out of the conversation like this. Do you think you could . . ._

_-Yes, certainly. I'll retreat at once. I thank you, Luna, for not putting up a fuss and tumble about this. And for telling me about the problem._

_-I would have told you later if you asked. _

_-I know you would have._

Here he withdrew back entirely into reality. A few waves of his wand, and all the magical locks came off the gate before them. It creaked as Neville leaned against it.

"I would've thought there were more wards," the lad genially suggested. "What with so many students and all."

"There used to be none, if you would believe it, Mr. Longbottom," replied Snape tersely. "We only instated these in the year of the Triwizard tournament. Not to brag, either, but that would not have been established without my institution. Dumbledore always was of the opinion that 'if the little tykes are of the mind to give up of schooling, they should be able to leave and get away with it; let their parents prod them into coming back if they want'. I thought that it might be better to put in defenses not necessarily to prevent students from leaving but just as dually in defense."

Put in his place, Neville shrugged and held the gate for the rest of them to pass. Nothing he ever said could impress Luna with Snape around, apparently. (3)

"Will you be able to come with us in side-along, Professor?" When not in private, Luna refused to address Snape as anything but his professional title. The older man did not object in the least.

"I believe so. It works with the floo; why not apparation? In the worst case scenario, you three go on without me."

"Winky will use her own magic after Master Neville, Master Snape, and Miss Luna have gone ahead," insisted the houself. She stood back a graceful distance as Snape stepped to Luna's side.

"Can I side-along with you, Luna?" asked Neville timidly.

The girl shook her head, a glint nevertheless in her eye. "You need practice. You're not bad at apparition, you passed your test all right, but you need more confidence. I refuse, but you'll see, you'll feel better about it when we're there."

He seemed unsure about it, but she put her hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss. "See you there!"

Heartened by her cheer, Neville took a deep breath and turned on the spot, disappearing with an unsteady cracking noise.

Snape took Luna's arm at this point, careful not to grasp too tightly onto the girl's fragile, birdlike wrist, and soon he began to solidify.

Rain. Trees. Wet earth. The cold metal of the gate. Luna's slight amount of perfume, like freesias. What he missed out on when he was fully, completely, utterly dead.

With the few times he had come into a solidified state, he had never been hit so hard with the realization that he missed scent. Now he breathed in the vapors of smoke, from one of the many hidden chimneys of Hogwarts, now he caught a whiff of sour fungi at his feet.

The overall impression was staggering. _How strange that I hated my nose all throughout my life, when I never bothered to appreciate its many uses I took for granted! In death, it's as though I am colorblind._(4) _You would think that color was unimportant in reality, but it is. It is._

The raindrops landed on the above-mentioned appendage, and, if he closed one eye and focused the other as far center as possible, he could see the silver trails of water slip down the bump of cartilage in the middle of his face. _It would seem like a vast amount of human perspiration if the sky were not so cloudy._

He looked at Luna. She bit her lower lip to keep it from chattering, and she appeared paler than usual. Her hair hung scraggly and almost dark brown, becoming more and more wet as they stood in the rain. Somehow, amid the blueness of her robes, eyes, and the gray sky, she seemed . . . amazingly beautiful. He could describe her no other way. Not beautiful in a my-god-let's-shag way, but more like . . ._an art project, produced after hours and hours of labor and tedium, time some goodhearted person who was not me devoted into creating her_ . . . beautiful in her own creative way. _A beauty I never appreciated before._

Becoming aware of her wetness made him aware of his own doused state. One hesitant hand reached to touch his head, and he felt the familiar oily black ringlets that so graced his living form. _How dreadful my hair is. Man, I wish I was beautiful._ _Wait, no, that sounds more than slightly homosexual, dammit. But never mind. Why must I succumb to myself? I hate myself. I hate death. _

"You're cold," Luna realized aloud. "We'd better hurry, or we'll be getting stuffy noses like Neville. Are you all right, Professor?" She was still formal before the perplexed Winky.

He had not even realized that he was shaking even worse than she was, and not even trying to hide it. But his cheeks felt hot enough; maybe he had a fever? _I just don't want to admit to myself that I'm crying under cover of the rain. _

"I really need a raincoat." His voice was tighter than he wanted it to be. _I'm a grown man. Dammit. Control! _

"You won't in a minute," Luna reminded, and tightened her grasp on his arm a bit more forcefully than he expected. _Is she concerned or annoyed? I can't tell right now. _He resigned to her, however, and soon they appeared in a much more temperate climate.

The sun shone above them, beating in a way only dramatic and warming as could be produced at the seashore. Waves crashed in the distance, the roar just eminent on the top of the cliff whereupon the house resided.

The picturesque scene was spoiled as they sighted Neville, blowing his nose loudly. _Fatuous oaf. He's lost his handkerchief and now resorts to his sleeve. Utterly revolting._

"Wretched child," whispered Luna with a laugh, letting go of Snape's arm to meander towards her boyfriend.

_Just leave me here, why don't you . . . _

Snape felt as though his solidity disappeared with her every step away, and suddenly longed her support again very keenly. Of course, he made no mention of the sensation, lest it might be misinterpreted. He did not have a 'way' with girls, as he well knew after many years of awkwardness, and even the slightest look on his part easily unsettled them. Sadly, he remembered Ginny's glare of dissatisfaction when she assumed his scanning of her clothes was more than a teacher reluctant to vindicate a student for good behavior. He took a mental swig of whiskey right there on the hill. _Story of my life. And death._

Winky appeared a split second after they did, dry and neat as she ever. Kindly, the house-elf snapped her fingers and, in an instant, all three of the humans no longer reeked of dampness. Neville was too deep in thought to notice, however.

"Um, are we kinda on the Weasley's property?" asked the nervous adolescent boy. "I think we're trespassing."

Indeed, they were not far away from a neat white picket fence. Sea-glass for the windows, smooth stones probably scoped from the beach formed into a tidy path, comfortable wicker furniture on the patio. _Pretty little place they have here. Just the place to raise a neat family of three. I'd envy it if I had anyone to share such a dear locale._

"Come on, we'll go knock and see if they're at home," suggested Luna, leading the way with a prancing step not exactly suitable to the situation.

Neville trotted eagerly behind her, but the house-elf was reluctant. Winky's large appealing eyes implored to the frail, cookie-colored stone settled between two evergreen bushes not twenty human paces away from her.

Snape understood her thoughts without delving into her mind. (5) _She wants to visit Dobby right now. I don't see that she ought to wait any more. Possibly, it will be better for her to be alone for at least a few minutes._

"Go on, I won't be keeping you," he insisted gruffly aloud, waving his hand at the elf, intimating that he wanted her to ignore Luna's summons. "You must pay your respects uninterrupted." Shooing her gently, he sent the solemn creature of a such small stature to approach the grave.

Down at the door of Shell Cottage, Luna's precise knock tattooed and was interrupted by Fleur turning the handle. From his position on top of a grassy knoll, Snape watched the part-veela's expression of surprise and mild concern turn into a kind smile. Neville made a comment then, and the pair glanced over at the hill.

Snape raised an eyebrow at them and made the appearance of being rather bored. No need to respond to their appeals to descend, or even provoke such queries. _Oh dear. I do not fancy to come in for lemon squash, not at all. I'm not in control of myself yet. _He was satisfied in his place for the moment, slightly separated from the rest of the world, thanks very much.

The boy made a motion to yell something to Snape, but was seized by a coughing fit. _That boy ought to take some pepper-up when we get back. Perhaps Delacour will be so kind as to provide him with some, so that his infernal snuffling subsides in time for the return trip. Instead of lemon squash. Damn lemon squash. _

He realized by Luna's distant survey and consequent visual discovery of Winky that, indeed, they had been looking for her all along. When the girl gestured her approval at Snape's handiwork with a nod and timid smile, the dead potions master inclined his head just enough to receive her graces. _Good girl. Now stop looking at me. It might get to my head, if I'm not careful. _

Then, he closed his eyes, in attempt to restrain his fluctuating emotions. _. . . By Jove, my angst is at a high level today . . . _Behind his austere gaze, head raised proudly, hair responding lightly as the breeze tugged it, he still felt the nearly-invisible saline on his lower eyelids. _I wish I were human. Damn, I took my whole blasted life for granted, didn't I? What a mistake . . . _

On an impulse, he drifted in the brief gusts of wind until he reached Winky's side. The little individual lay on her knees, so low to the ground that one might have mistaken her for a rock if they tried.

_I want to breathe the air again. I want to smell the lawn, undoubtedly fresh-cut by that bastard Bill Weasley. I want to taste the sea air on my tongue. A thousand clichés forbidden to me . . ._

Winky's tears splashing on the rocks, though created in her eyes silently, landed with tiny gushes just audible to Severus' ear.

_Now comes the continual question posed by moralists_(6)_ . . . is it selfish to commit a kind gesture for the sake of feeling good at having comforted a fellow soul? Or is such altruism's after-result a mere inevitable consequence that should not be taken into the equation? Well, there's an instant physical gratification to me now, so I suppose this won't be completely kindness . . . _

He took her bony hand, petting it softly. His longest finger could have wrapped three times around her wrist, so it was an odd picture to view, but the potions master began to turn more physically real with the tender (if not purely humanitarian) action. Winky turned to see what stranger bestowed his ghostly encouragement upon her, and gave him a look as though she _knew. _But nevertheless, her head leaned back forwards, and she silently remained in her close kneel at the grave's head.

Snape felt the satanic flush of enjoyment, same as before in the rain, but this time expected. The ocean air filled his lungs, stinging his eyes as the bracing wind nipped his increasingly solid hair. The mowed grass did indeed give the most refreshing rural smell possible, without the stench of cows or pigs with troughs hidden behind the cottage.

_Well, there is a chicken there on their lawn. No, I recant that—a seagull. How divine!_

The screech of the said bird reached his ears better than in his ghost state, he imagined, though the effect might have been merely psychological. He felt the warm earth under his knees, and relished the idea that he celebrated one of the few lovely days in near-October where the world and heavens were in such harmony.

Without a thought, he removed his only real accessory beyond his wand—a thick black wool scarf—and dashed it to the ground in some jubilation. No need for it here, with this weather. The tears still weighing on the bags under his eyes fled down his face with the movement.

_It's almost like living again. I think it actually is, in some crazy delusional way. I don't understand why or how, but I believe it's a grand thing indeed. _

"Winky must not cry unless she desires," he blurted, barely conceiving the idea before voicing it.

_This is a beautiful day. Too beautiful for my tears. Too beautiful for _her _tears._ _She ought not cry, poor creature. _

"Winky wishes Dobby had not died!" whispered the miserable house-elf in the truest agony. With a sudden movement of despair, she ripped her brittle claw away from Snape's sinewy flesh and threw herself on top of the mound of dirt covering her adored friend.

"Winky loved you," she murmured, almost unheard. "Winky loved you. But Winky never told you."

Two eyes focused on the prostrate young elf, though they grew less and less opaque with the passing seconds.

_Well, that absurdly giddy stage has passed. It was strange, while it lasted. Euphoria does not suit me. _

It was stranger still how, instead of 'coming down to earth' with the recovery of his cynicism and observance reality, he literally left the ground and solidity. Quite a paradox, that.

_The little creature is so pathetic. I am now thoroughly ashamed of myself for being so callous to her plight. Dare I reminisce . . ._

It dawned upon him that this house-elf, similar to him, suffered from that terrible 'l-word', unconfirmed and untold, as in his own case. _Hopefully that bastard Dobby is watching her and missing her terribly, or we'll have a ghost of an elf on our hands. _

He closed his eyes. _Better not think about her, lest you go back to pieces again now that you're emotionally stable again. _

"Professor?"

Luna's voice swept past him melodiously, but too quiet for Winky to hear from her position on the ground.

"Mhm?"

"Is she all right?"

He opened his eyes. Winky was quiet, sniffling tragically, creating small drops of mud on the otherwise-smooth packed mound.

"I think she will be. Let us leave her alone for a time." Fiercely, he turned on his heel and prepared to stalk away quickly.

"Wait, Fleur's getting us some tea and biscuits. Bill and her baby are gone today to the zoo, but she'll be out in a minute."

Indeed, not much later, a cheery plaid quilt was laid upon the mowed grass lawn, and the somber party seated around it. Fleur, rivaling Narcissa Malfoy in diplomatic hostess skills, practiced them upon the surly ghost and the introverted lovers, no matter how undesired they were.

"And so zen, after dinner at ze Ritz in London, my darling took me to see zis strange theatre-play called _Le Phantom of Ze Opera. _It was quite ze good, but I found ze main character a bit scary," the French girl smiled, relating episodes from dates with her now-husband. "But he reminded moi of Bill, a bit, so I liked it more."

Snape lay on his stomach, hands over his ears to eliminate the heavy accent of her chatter from his brain, _or indeed it shall implode with the desire to correct that woman's atrocious English_. His eyes focused as high as possibly they could, watching the mounting mush of clouds rolling into the sky. The storm they had just left at Hogwarts was soon to set this area into dire straits, probably.

Neville and Luna flirted quietly in the hush-hush voices so commonly utilized by those in private intimate conversation. A brief glance in their direction proved that the were not in any mood to listen to Fleur either.

"Upon that time, he surprised me with ze wonderful idea," the part-veela continued almost esoterically, "zat we should take a visit to ze British Musuem zat you persons of England have . . ."

At this point, though, her jabber died in mid-sentence. Snape raised his eyes from examining the knit of the blanket to see what distracted her.

Winky had descended from the grave's hill, looking as though struck by an epiphany.

"I do believe we've imposed upon your hospitality long enough, Mrs. Weasley," Snape insisted, standing. He had an idea that he had come upon amid his adulterated listening to their hostess, and he wanted to talk to Luna about it as soon as possible.

"Oh, no, it was no trouble, no trouble at all! I get lonely when zey go on zeese little 'daddy et moi' trips zey take once in a while. I don't zink zat leetle Victorie quite understands what she is seeing, much . . . but Bill sayz she does, so-"

But with a quick bow, Neville, seeming anxious to be gone himself, rose from his place under Luna's gentle head and began to gather plates. He probably had a much better way to spend the afternoon in mind.

"Winky was really happy afterwards. If you just saw her eyes . . . thanks so much for indulging her, arranging the trip for us and everything."

Luna's gleaming eyes shone at her ghostly friend hours later, in the dim light of his office.

Snape shrugged.

"It was not much. How was Madame Puddifoot's with your boyfriend?"

_There's something about her look that, I must confess, I do not like . . ._

"Or . . . did you _not _go to Madame Puddifoot's?"

She laughed, gaily.

"We didn't go to Madame Puddifoot's."

"I didn't think so. It's not a Hogsmede weekend, and Neville—though he's not technically a student any longer—has none of the privileges allotted to teachers for escorting students off campus. I'm not stupid, Luna."

"I'm sorry, Sev." She did not seem to look very repentant, though, as she leaned back in her chair, radiant.

"So, where did you go? Or do I even want to know?"

"Oh, we had sex."

Snape coughed, hard.

"Oh. You asked if you even wanted to know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I just . . . that was the least I expected."

Luna laughed. "I'm still sorry. I'm still just caught up in it all . . . it was so surprising . . . he just dragged me away to this beautiful little arbor I never knew about, and he started taking my clothes off. It was wonderful. We just fit . . . right together. Perfectly. It was amazing."

"No more details, please."

_Good Merlin. She's telling this to _me_, of all people. Well, perhaps she thinks it might be enjoyable to live vicariously through her. But, no, I'm a terrible prat just to suppose that I'm not happy for her. That's one less thing I never did that she has to take care of, now. One step off the path of a miserable pessimist like myself—though she never was in too much danger of following it before. _

She grinned at him in a manner that could only be described as salacious. "Are you quite certain you don't want to know any more? I thought it was more marvelous than anything I've ever experienced."

"Absolutely. There's no reason such intimacies that happen in the bedroom . . . or, in your case, the garden . . . should be passed on to anyone else. That's the way I was brought up, even if my parents did not always abide by those guidelines. They often made it . . . well, let me say relatively public, at least to my sister and I." _Poor Sylvia. No wonder she turned out the way she did. She saw such things at a crucial stage in her mental development, that filled her subconscious with images of sex before she knew having it frivolously was bad. She's better off now, I suppose._

He furiously shook his head. "That's my opinion, though, as an old maid, decrepit and dead. I just want to ask, though, are you certain that Neville is . . . _the _one?"

"I wouldn't have allowed it to happen, otherwise," Luna nodded, satisfied. "I was very, very careful to clean up afterwards, by the way, if you're concerned about that."

"I am indeed. You need to finish school, Luna, and embark on a serious career. _The Quibbler, _even with improvements as we have been making, will not support a large family. As it was, you and your father never had a holiday until you sold that story to _The Prophet._"

"Don't I well know it!" Her eyes faded to a duller sadness. "It was the best summer we'd ever had. Never found what we were looking for half the time, but we discovered so much up there, in Sweden."

They held a slight silence in respect for Xenophilius Lovegood.

"By the by," Snape said to break the lull, "I have something I'd like you to help me with."

"Ooh, all right. What?"

Here was the hard part. _How to make it not sound incredibly . . . wrong . . ._

"I'd like you, Luna, to come to my bedchamber very quickly" _Oh Merlin, she's recoiling already. _"But my intentions are nothing, nothing like your Neville's earlier, please believe."

She laughed. "If you say so. Don't worry so much, I know you wouldn't . . . try and do anything. What do you need me to do there?"

"I need you to hold my arm, until I have solidified enough to carry out the de-activation of several charms and wards on a certain . . . object. There's one ward in particular that I need to be solid to break, because it involves my fingerprint to clear it . . . But I'm going to have to ask you to close your eyes during the process, because it involves some secrets I wish to keep private."

"From even me?" She sounded more hurt than anything. "All right, I accept. I wish you'd let me know about what it was all about, but if you don't want to tell me, I won't put up a fuss."

"Thank you," he nodded, unable to stop a small smile and blush from rising on his cheeks.

. line. .

"Damn it girl, I told you not to look!"

She had opened her eyes, and she had seen the hole, and she had seen the open trunk of Lily's mementos.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled softly. "But a nargle bit my ankle. It was a natural reaction."

Snape let go of his benefactress' arm, feeling moderately betrayed. _There are no such things as nargles. There are no such things as nargles! Damn it damn it damn it! What did she think she was playing at?_

His eyes reflected colder than they ever had shone upon the golden hair of the Ravenclaw. "I _told _you _not_ to _open_ your eyes," he savagely spat. His silken voice, though very quiet, steeped in ire. "I TOLD YOU!" he shouted angrily, circling the Delilah, clearly very pissed indeed.

"Well, you _did _pry into my mind uninvited earlier," Luna defended, as brave as she could manage.

"That does _not _make it excusable" he retorted, furious. "You promised you would not violate my privacy; you certified it! Your honesty is _deplorable!_ How ever in the world did you expect me to anticipate your devious, she-wolf attitude? I considered you a modest, good-hearted young girl able to be trusted, but this _certainly_ proves otherwise!"

_Oh Merlin. My good-for-nothing temper has made her cry. Well, fuck her, I'm still in the midst of my tirade. This is not anything she can just get away with._

"Wretch! Viper! Vixen! She-devil!" he threw at her, his anger not ebbing as tears began to fall from Luna's eyes. "Incontinent hag! Artless, fool-born clotpole! Villainous hedge-born younker! Your father taught you nothing of respecting your elders? Of respecting the dead? Ignorant, paper-faced rudesby! Remnant! Ratsbane! Miscreant!"

Even in the face of the most fearsome teachers in the school, however, Luna began to laugh amid her tears. Apparently, she found some of his Elizabethan-style insults to be all too funny.

Then he slapped her.

It was not so much the pain from it that caused her so much alarm, but the action itself, he sensed. Of course, his not being completely whole made it not so hard as it might have been—his hand swooshed through her face without technically touching it in his ghost's state—but the intent behind it was to hurt.

_Oh god. God. Merlin. God. God. Merlin. _

He felt a bit dizzy, and staggered backwards. He could not remember the last time he verbally assaulted a girl with such vehemence. (Bellatrix excluded). Much, much less hit her. (Bellatrix included.)

_I'm an angry old demon from hell. _

But he could not keep back the last insult on his tongue.

"May your body be set upon by filthy ravens and torn asunder, leaving only bespecked bone and curdled fat for which the rats upon to feast."

At which point, he collapsed on the bed, a nebula of confusion, anger, and upset.

Luna waited for about five minutes, thinking silently in a corner. Then, without a word, she advanced upon him.

"I really am sorry," she confessed. "And I know you have every right to be mad. But you didn't mean all that you said just now, too, and I know that--unlike some people have in the past."

_I shouldn't have talked to her about the whole incident that broke Lily's civility . . ._

"I don't really know what to think, right now, except that you really should not have been ashamed of hiding this shrine from me. I mean . . . it's a little bit creepy, some people would really be quite upset about it, but it's nothing really to hide from someone you care about. Who cares about you."

She laid her hand on his, a sign of peace and forgiveness more welcome than the dove on Noah's ark.

_. . . My god, after what I just did to her? She's still in the room. She's forgiving me. Immediate retribution! Is this . . . is this real?_

Tears began to well from his sockets, each one becoming more real as his body solidified, limp and unmoving on the bed.

Somehow his head ended up in her lap, and he was crying his heart out as though he were sentenced to die all over again. She simply stroked his oily hair tenderly, saying nothing.

_She treats me too well. My god. How could I do what my father did . . . I swore never to do this to any woman . . . never . . . _

"I didn't mean that, Luna. Dear. I'm so sorry," he choked, when finally words came to him again. "Today I've been a mass of nerves . . . don't know what's the bloody matter with me . . ."

"You were near a grave, today," Luna said slowly. "I would probably be a little strange prior to and after that, in your situation. It'd be kinda unnerving . . . knowing that you're in someplace just like it somewhere . . . six feet under . . ."

"Maybe that is it," Snape replied, eager to divert the situation from anywhere but there. Practically, however, Luna turned back to the main conflict at hand.

"But, do you know what I think about this little shrine?"

She did not wait for an answer.

"I think it's an anchor with the past that is really unnecessary. You're holding yourself back, stunting your own emotional growth by keeping all these tangible memories of Lily. How can you ever love anyone else again as you loved her, by keeping everything that reminds you of her fresh and new? Your personality is partly to do with it, I suppose, but you can be moderately agreeable when you want to be. Even if you had your mind set on finding someone new, though, you wouldn't be able to easily with this trunk of stuff. It's what they call 'emotional baggage' in trashy magazines that claim to understand love and relationships. It's preventing you from being able to love again. No wonder you always pined for her. You never tried to forget her wholeheartedly."

He listened, and he looked at her.

"You may be right," he said, slowly, chewing over the statement.

"But there's a really good part," Luna replied, a small smile emerging. "You have this ability to be alive again through this ability you have. It's your second chance, Severus. You don't have to have a second chance through me, or anyone else. You can live your own love story with this gift in death. Imagine if you had someone by your side all day, every day, who loved you more than I ever could, in ways I never would be able to. All you would have to do is keep her—or him, if you decide that boys are your fancy after all this—is keep him or her by your side virtually all the time, and you would be virtually alive, to all extents and purposes. It would be a new chance at life, regaining what you lost so bitterly."

Snape's eyes closed, absorbing her words without a sound. He liked the images in his mind of him, arm and arm with a slim and faceless woman.

"But the first step, Severus . . . the first step to finding this happiness is to destroy the box of Lily's junk. Frankly, it's got cockroaches in it and stuff, so it shouldn't be too hard to motivate you to throw it in the fire."

He looked at it from their position on the bed. Yes, she was right; as he saw, a black _thing_ scuttled under the dresser from its cover under the lid.

Without a word, Snape rose from his place in Luna's arms and, before he completely faded away, threw the trunk full-force into the fire.

He turned back to her, and Luna smiled boldly.

_I'm going to regret this in the morning . . . but for now, it's worth it just to see the dear girl pleased with me after all that._

His head began to hurt intensely after all that, and he put his hand to massage his temple.

"Just . . . just go, would you, please? I'm sorry. Sorry for all this. Thank you, Luna. Thanks very, very much. I'm terribly sorry."

"Don't be," she suggested, and, as though nothing had happened, she kissed him tenderly on the cheek in parting.

Then, with robes considerably made wetter from his tears, she left, closing the door softly behind her.

_Oh god. God. Merlin. I need whiskey right now._

He crawled into bed nevertheless, too tired to make an effort to find some at that time.

* * *

(1) "just the sort of voiceover criticized by professors of filmwriting." That's an allusion to a particular movie starring Nicholas Cage. If you name it correctly . . . brownie points to you. 

(2) "'I turn of age in a month'" Luna says in Ch. 7. I was thoroughly wrong. She entered Hogwarts in 1992, and I determine her an Aquarius with the birthdate of February 13, thus at this point in the story she is almost 18, actually. She passed her apparation test last year.

(3) When I wrote that, 'The Way I feel Inside' by The Zombies – found in the soundtrack of The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou-- came into play, and it was so desperately cute to read with that sentence that I HAD to say something about it. Even if it was a spontaneous line in Neville's POV. (clinches eyes together in self admonition) Technically, I shouldn't have done that, but I'm leaving the random change in POV. I have this footnote to excuse it.

(4) "I am colorblind" "Man, I wish I was beautiful." "I really need a raincoat." Guess what band I was listening to while writing this part and you get major, MAJOR brownie points.

(5) Is it even possible for a human to use occulmency on a houself?

(6) I found this forum topic when I was researching Ayn Rand for a paper in 9th grade. I've remembered it ever since I first read it . . . really made me think. Take a look, if you like.

h t t p / f o r u m . o b j e c t i v i s m o n l i n e . n e t / i n d e x . p h p ? s h o w t o p i c 2 9 0 6

(7) This chapter made me think of this album by Day OFF, called Picnic in the Cemetery. Find it on iTunes; you will find they are some very lovely cello and piano duets.


	24. Realizations with Buttery Muffins

_Sorry it's been so long! Too much schoolwork. Gah. You try fitting in 12 classes a semester. Killing my writing time. But I had to post something to celebrate, Jan. 9 2008; it's our dear friend Sevvy's 48__th__ birthday. (If he were not dead, that is. Considering if he was born in 1960.) Anyways. I've been so desperate to finish that I've been composing on my graphing calculator. The entire first part of this chapter has been brought to you thanks to Texas Instruments Plus Silver Edition, Quaker Mini Rice Cakes Caramel Flavor, and scraped time in Honors Chemistry and Honors English. You do the math. (Ha ha.)_

Chapter 24

Walls. Walls of the most desolate color gray, halfway beautiful but very dreary. Snape gazed at them in a sort of fitful melancholy, forlorn and despondent amid a sea of unspoken regret and misery.

_How_, he mourned, _could I have been so stupid? _

The lack of control, the treachery of the most unassuming child, the helpless flinging of his sacred trove into a blazing fire--all this came back to him with involuntary surges. This was worse than any hangover he ever could recall; he felt that he had swallowed a wholesale-size bottle of suppressed, condensed emotion. His scarred sphincter, damaged from his aforementioned teenage _bulimia nervosa,_ could scarce contain it. The burden settled in his stomach like lead, but lead of a sort that expanded when it came in contact with the dead-sharp acids within him. Thus it inflated like an iron sponge, with the determination to completely fill his entire abdominal cavity.

In his tousled bed, fraught in disarray as a fault of the ill dreams that plagued him in the course of the night, he decided he had none of the will to rise and _carpe diem. _Damn his Monday morning classes to the lowest realms of Dante's hell; he did not consider himself in a fit state, or at all otherwise capable to teach.

_Why did I fall to the terrible impulse forced upon me_? He queried mentally to the walls, which seemed to hear and ponder the point, but made no answer in the dead stillness of the room. _What_, he went on, _drove so Satanish a compulsion as to swing my arm? What instigated the urge for my fingers to unclasp from the cold brass handle? _He thought he could see that handle, with his peripheral vision, among the cold gray ashes of the hearth. _Always gray, everything is gray. I am gray. _

He had lost hold of his greatest materialistic treasure, the scraps that commemorated the life of the most divine and revered being that he knew and respected even before his God.

The idea that Luna's manipulation had succumbed him to committing the heinous deed, though he was fully aware she only meant to help him, left him more than confused. _It is not as though I feel angry at her—far from it. _Indeed, this was a singularly strange event in itself, for he knew his usual habit in such situations was to lay the blame on anyone else's doorstep. Neither did he feel any amount of reproach to her. _It was my weakness alone in the end which drew me to my folly. I ought not have been so easily persuaded. I ought to have listened to her entreaties, certainly, but I should have begged time to think, to ponder, to consider consequences and alternatives. If I had used my imbecilic brain instead of letting my unusually-susceptible hormones take control of me, I would be a far better pleased man—ghost—now. _

_But then_, he mused with bittersweet realization, _If she had not convinced me it was the right choice of action, if I had not fallen to so weak a state, if had not done it at the moment I was full under her influence, I never should have done it. _He had to admit, he was a pack-rat with a love of retaining even the most trivial of things—any book he could get for a cheap price (whether the subject was interesting to him or not), papers without names from students who surely had since graduated, every paper _he _ever wrote at Hogwarts, and even the still-usable shoelaces from outworn boots. His passion for frugality prevailed over cleanliness, and the Spinner's End home attested to that.

Speaking of which, he needed to get over there and decide what to do with the place._ Maybe Sylvia wants to live in it. I can't ever live in it._

But back to his main point. _Still, perhaps it was better that I got rid of it then, before I had time to determine a more rational course, when I felt courageous enough with her presence and angered enough by her words. Merlin, I wish she was here now. _

With a slight shudder, he realized that without her encouragement, he would have the chest now, and would very likely be gratefully absorbed in its contents like the dogged old suitor he always had been. It was a sad thought, but he could not decide whether or not he wished the results of that alternate time path before him.

He comprehended the logic presented by Luna perfectly. Lily, after all this time, was beyond unattainable, and lamenting over her for the remainder of eternity would be the course of a depressing old fool. Yet, in some strange and indispensable way, he did not want to let go of her.

It was not just a matter of passivity behind the desire to retain his love for the callous woman who scorned him for so long; he actively refused himself the benefit of disengaging. Lily had been a major part of him ever since he could remember, and tearing her out of his life seemed equivocal to suicide.

_But, then, it should not matter so much now, for I can't get any deader._

The distinction, though, was that he had died _for_ her; he had lived solely for the sake of protecting her son and her memory, and then he had proceeded to die in her name. How did one simply eliminate such a vital part of one's existence as that?

It seemed utterly impossible, beyond the scope of his imagination. He could not blame himself for his reticence.

_Maybe Luna had a point when she suggested that I might, in destroying the shackles of Lily, open my heart and being to a new, wiser love in someone of my current social sphere. _More likely the child was being too optimistic, though. He found the idea of anyone being in love with _him_, of all people, preposterous. Laughable, at best; the poor dear undoubtedly was seeing things in far too clandestine a light after her success with Mr. Longbottom just earlier.

He found himself confessing that a certain amount of envy permeated his mind when he imagined Luna and her boyfriend together--not the searing, scorching internal pain that seized him when James acted friendly to Lily—but a milder wrenching of the heartstrings. How could they—_forgive me, Luna—_a mere set of misfits—find such happiness together? _Dammit. I'm jealous of Longbottom. That would be new. _

It was not a jealousy of lust for the tiny blond Ravenclaw, but a spanking jealousy of her attentions and affections. Time she spent with Neville was obviously time _not_ spent with the greasy ghost of the dungeons. That hurt more than he thought it ought.

_Perhaps I really should try and forget Lily Evans. Find someone who actually wants to devote their entire attention upon me. Though someone besides Trelawney, who would be willing from what Pince has told me—gods, please do not let me ever fall under her 'the stars say we are soul mates' regime! _

His mind reverted back to the day sometime last October when the lesbian librarian Pince had told him, under guise of a verbal attack, that Trelawney rather fancied the already-very-stressed new headmaster of Hogwarts. When he could not believe what the bookworm had said, he questioned her more keenly, and Pince had elaborated in an almost civil manner. Apparently, Sylbil had been the one sending him a succession of anonymous valentines on February 14th for the past decade or so, and it was a private joke among the other female teachers to laugh about behind the charlatan seer's back.

This was painful for Snape, considering the very vital fact that _he _knew she was not completely a bunkhouse—after all, who had given the prophesy which, upon its relay, sent the Dark Lord to the Potters' house? What poor messenger was the carrier of the prophesy? It was a very disarming bit of knowledge to swallow, considering the irony of the situation, and Snape felt all the more despise for the diviner.

At any rate, Pince had gone and passed on a note from Snape to the woman in question, stating that he had no intention of falling in love with her, sorry, hope she got over him soon, etc. With a smirk almost rivaling his own, the rather precocious messenger delivered the message in due time, and returned to report that Trelawney was very upset but ought to get over it. Ever since, the pair occassionally made references to the distraught fortune-reader, Snape checking Pince's reservoir of information from the staff women's wing. Like the other day, in the infirmary:

" _. . . I personally believe the only true words in that rubbish came from Trelawney. Who, with her very sentimental attachment to you, would very likely have described you in such a manner as depicted. Otherwise, I'll wager, the rest was balderdash."_

_"Trelawney still is . . . lamenting?"_

_"Aye, that she is. And something terrible too. Sybil claims inner eye 'clouds up at the very mention' of your name, so she said, and apparently the stars have written that you were supposed to apologize and propose to her three months ago."_

At which point Snape caught himself laughing in the face of the remembrance. Women were more fun to converse with when they were assuredly _not _going after his willie!

But Snape had watched the diviner for a long time after the occasion in October 1997, wondering how he never had guessed her secret affections for him, and pondering how much self-control she had over her romantic impulses—very rarely did she ever cast a gaze in his direction, and she never endeavored to sit near him at staff parties or the like. She seemed not to even remember that he existed, most of the time. He dared not suppose _when_ she _did _remember, though!

Though now he had mildly acerbated and brought himself to faint amusement with his contemplations of Trelawney, he tried to imagine himself along the side of a woman who was _not _Lily Evans. This was quite difficult—he really did not know many available women.

Professor Vector was a bit too chubby for his taste, plus she had an innocuous look in her eyes that made her resemble his idea of a Laputian from _Gulliver's Travels. _She was always a bit silly for him, anyways—never could hold her own in a conversation without going back to her favorite subject, numbers.

Professor Sinistra was a possibility, but she was too quiet; no spirit or sparkle. Whenever he had a chance conversation with the astronomy teacher, she always took to agreeing to his every statement, then nodding into silence. Spending all her time sleeping in the day was probably not beneficial to her social health.

Professor Temperence of Ancient Runes—there was a woman with fire and personality. But, he decided, too salacious in general. She made no secret of her habitual one-night stands on weekends, often boasting about her newest victims over morning coffee in the Great Hall. Why else did she wear those tight red skirts and purportedly enticing black knits?

_Oh, what's the use? _He remembered morosely, _I've never been even remotely interested in them, and they've never paid me a spot of interest either. I ought to crawl in some dirty hole and never emerge again. So pathetic. So pathetic. As if I even had a chance—who'd want to bed a ghost?_

A neat tapping on the chamber door aroused him from watching his perpetually spiraling ego swirl into oblivion.

"Come . . . come in," he called hoarsely, wondering who it was. He exerted himself enough to sit up and look.

Luna. _Dear girl, just who I wanted to see. _She bore a tea tray with two pots and a plate of white, buttery muffins. The sight of those victuals made him want to retch.

"I thought you might be rather out of sorts this morning," she suggested complacently, sweeping the door closed and placing the edibles on his side table. "I wasn't sure that you'd be up to eating anything, but I brought you some tea, and I'm going to try forcing something more substantial into you as well."

"I don't deserve your kindness after yesterday," he apologized sadly, his eyes drooping in shame. Maybe she would forget the food if he got her talking; the very sight of it made him feel even worse.

A sunny smile, and the warmth of a soft human hand; she showed him that everything was okay.

"No, you don't. But yesterday was strange. Strange for everyone, me included. So let's forget about the complications and only think of the good that came out of it." She paused, then spontaneously hugged him.

Though a month ago he might have flinched at this sudden display of affection, he simply accepted it now. _How the deuce did I get so accustomed to her touching me? I rather have come to appreciate it these days. It is beyond odd._

"You're very sad, aren't you? I'm sorry for making you do that." Her words, so childlike, accompanied a sound that seemed suspiciously like a sniffle.

"It will be a long time until I come to terms with it," he replied slowly, carefully, "But in some ways I'm rather glad you encouraged it. I need to break with the past, however painful it is. I believe that is what the other ghosts here have failed to do in their continuant existence, and it might save me from becoming like them." He found the strength to laugh, slightly. "Don't blame yourself for making this dirty old magpie throw away his accumulation. I shouldn't have had most of it, by rights."

Luna said nothing, but squeezed him all the tighter.

_Sometimes touch really can be one of the most amazing comforts. I wonder why no one's written a study on it before. _

"You aren't dirty," the girl proposed insouciantly. "Just . . . I don't know. Gray."

_Again, that morbid color._

"I . . . see."

Snape slowly drew the covers off himself and realized, with chagrin, that he had not even stopped to remove his boots when he fell asleep. No wonder his feet felt so cramped as they solidified. At least the soles were not caked with dry mud.

"Do you want help?" Luna asked, shifting her position.

"No, no, it's fine." His back was quite limber, and he had no problem reaching and yanking the laces. The cool air met his stockinged feet with relish, and he flexed them dutifully. With the activity, Luna straightened herself as well, letting go of his shoulders and bringing the tea tray nearer.

"You must eat, Sev. You didn't have anything at the picnic yesterday evening for obvious reasons, and you did not make it to dinner last night."

"I really have no desire to-."

"-I like to share."

The finality of the words, though so simple, was concise and unbudging. Snape's head fell, and he examined the food from a distance.

"You don't have anything evaporated with you, though."

"Well, when you're solid, you'll eat solid food, I think."

Leaning on his shoulder, just to ensure that he remained in his psuedo-living state, she shoved a crisp muffin into his hands.

"Ew. Saturated fats." The golden butter dripped like specks of urine onto his hands from between the crumbly bread.

"I don't believe the cow would appreciate that comment," Luna smiled, serene.

_My ungratefulness just bounces off her. Gods. I wonder why we haven't been friends for years._

Without an expression on his own face, he observed her cheerfully applying more butter on her own muffin and daintily nibbling at it.

A thought struck him. _Friends? Gracious. I never thought I could call anyone really a friend since Lily. This is an improvement. I believe. _

"Does yours have any Gizzub fuzz on it?"

He looked at her. "Gizzub fuzz?"

She hastened to explain. "Gizzubs like to hide in the breadbox; they eat the flies and ants that come in it so they're good from our standpoint, but once a year they shed their fuzz and it sometimes gets in the food."

_. . . Do I take her seriously or . . ._

A peal of laughter met his ears, and he saw she was joking. Her eyes danced as she elaborated confidingly, "Once I did really find some 'Gizzub fuzz' in our pantry, but now I think it just belonged to a mouse."

"Utterly revolting."

Taking the anecdote as a sly encouragement on her part to eat—without it seeming like her idea or mandate, per se—he bit hesitantly into his breakfast and tried to forget the artery-clogging properties of butter. _After all, it's not as though I have it every day. And I should encourage myself to gain a few pounds. _

He was surprised that, after all, Luna was right about being solid and eating solid food—it went down easily, and no ill effects followed. He was even more surprised that he took a second muffin from the tray.

"By the way, what time is it? I can't read the clock."

She glanced. "When I called Winky for the tea things, it was about half past four."

"In the afternoon?" _Oh Gods. Not another Rip Van Winkle episode._

"No, morning."

_Thank Merlin. At least my life can go on as normal without everyone making a fuss about me sleeping too much._

"Oh. I hope you didn't get up at this unearthly hour for my sake."

She sighed, and for the first time since he awoke, he realized how tired she appeared.

"No, I was awake anyhow." She provided no explanation for a few moments, then, carefully, she prompted, "I was thinking."

"About what?" _Oh dear. Dear. If this has something to do with what she did with Neville yesterday . . ._

"You."

_Really? Well, at least she isn't having regrets about her actions. But what possibly would she be thinking about _me _for? _Snape said nothing, but merely waited for her to continue.

"Well, you and Lily, actually."

The weight in his stomach, though it had disappeared with Luna's entrance, visualized once again, and he felt nauseated.

"I frankly believe that Lily was a right idiot not to adore you." The girl stared at the ground sadly, an incandescent aura about her. Gently, she went on, "Sorry, but I think that if she cared a fig for you, she never would have given James a thought. It's very unfair what she did."

"Perhaps," he slowly agreed, trying not to sound too martyr-ish, "But it's not her fault I'm a low-down possessive creep who can't even-"

But he was interrupted by a reprimanding finger on his lips.

"Shush. You don't deserve such criticism. My father always said that self-reproach never would get anyone anywhere except _to the Antarctic_." She paused. "Antarctica being on the bottom of the globe, see?"

A skeptic eyebrow raised on the face of the pale potions master.

"But, do you know, I heard something not too long ago," the girl pursued, "And I don't know what I am supposed to think."

"_Supposed_ to think?"

"Yes, _supposed. _For, after all, I know what I myself think."

Snape blinked. "Pray explain."

Like a bird tilting its head to look at the sky, surveying the flying arena and deciding whether it was safe or not to embark on a long trip, Luna's eyes floated to the ceiling as she fell into a reminiscence.

"Well, it was a year ago, but it was the year that Slughorn was teaching potions for the first time in forever. You were Dark Arts Master."

"Indeed." _The year that I killed Dumbledore. _

"Anyways. Slughorn hosted a party for Christmas, and Harry was invited because, you know all too well, he's 'the boy who lived' and such. And Harry asked me because he did not want to ask Hermione for Ron's sake, and he wasn't in love with Ginny yet. So I came along, and it was very lovely. Excellent strawberry jelly they served." She pondered for a moment, pursing her lip. "I do believe you were there, actually."

"Quite possibly." _Damn Dumbledore never let me get out of those wretched things._

"Anyhow. Slughorn said something about the only one ever being better at potions than you was Lily."

Here, the girl turned and looked at Snape pointedly.

"He probably said something to the accord," Severus replied warily, but knew his evasion would not work with the determined Ravenclaw.

"He _did. _I_ heard _him." Such an intense gaze—so innocent, pure, and girlish—but so penetrating.

"But . . . you do not believe him?" He was nervous.

"Mm, well, I believe he was speaking the truth, from his point of view. But _really._" She did not believe a word of it.

"So, you want an explanation?" Though, he did not know how to feel—miffed, anxious, or just weary as usual.

"If you care to give one, I'll listen, but I already know what happened." She took a deep breath. "I know I never really knew her, so I can't say I would know for certain, but it seems to me that most of Lily's innate genius came from some other source. After all, she was Muggleborn, and thus surely learned nothing from her parents. And, based on my lessons in face-reading from Bane and several photographs I've seen over the years . . . she isn't the type of person like Hermione, who will ensure her success at school by reading all the textbooks before arriving. Therefore, she must have had some amount of help to glean Slughorn's admiration from the first day of class. And who else would have helped her?"

He was outed. "Well, me."

"Of course." Luna smiled serenely and leaned over his shoulder again lovingly. "So, tell me, was she really the great, amazing natural that you've always made her out to be?"

_This girl can be a real Slytherin at times_, he pouted. "It does not change the fact that she was a quick learner."

"So you say. But I don't think she looks the type to be a natural at anything. Truthfully, I've made a great habit of studying people, and she does not seem to be much more than a flighty girl with perhaps some brain but no real lust for perfection. You, on the other hand, would not be satisfied with a girl who was not as adamant about schooling as yourself, and I think you very much _encouraged_ her, if not _forced_ her into practicing."

Images flooded his mind. Studying with Lily in her home garage over the summer holidays, spending hours and hours on end in the semi-darkness until her parents came in to make sure they were not dead. Staying after class in potions to pore over ingredients and measuring utensils. Tramping through Diagon Alley for an entire morning, searching for the freshest and most inexpensive materials. _It was time I enjoyed, and time I thought she enjoyed, too. _

"I'm sure you're mistaken. It was not like that at all. We did it always because it was . . . amusing. Something to pass the time."

"But did you ever think, Sev, that perhaps she was in love with you, so she was willing to do whatever you said just because you were _you_?" Her eyes were alight and shining as she propounded the idea, presented it to him with her gratifications.

He stared at her. "That's highly unlike you, Luna."

"Not really." She submerged back into her more normal bemused appearance. "But do you see what I'm trying to get at?"

"No. I don't think so."

He did, though. In the back of his mind, memories swelled.

"_Sev, let's go down to the playground after while, all right?"_

"_No, no, we need to practice the A.R.D.V.A.R.K. system some more. You still aren't getting the V and the K straight and you need to know them cold for second year potions."_

"_Sev, come on, let's not study tonight, okay, I'm tired. We can watch _Eurovision Song Contest._"_

"_After we finish this Evanescence, it's going to take another hour because we have to eliminate the traces of the bulbutober puss you put in. Third year potions is not going to be any harder than this, so let's just finish."_

"_Sev, come on. Mum hates when we're up past twelve. Won't this stupid thing be done anytime soon?"_

"_Lily, we need to practice this for fourth year potions. See, wait, turn three times clockwise and twice counter-clockwise. No, no, don't! Oh! Damn, turn it two more times clockwise again and two more times counter-clockwise, and mind you don't mess THAT up!"_

"_Sev, this is stupid. I hate standing here, my hair gets frizzy from the fumes. I want to go to bed."_

"_Fine, I'll cover it and we'll finish in the morning. Do you mind if I say you're quite the spoilsport?"_

"_This isn't sport to me, Sev."_

"_Sev, it's late. I want to go dancing. I want you to take me."_

"_Where the hell do you think I'd get any money to take you dancing?"_

"_My dad gives me allowance. I'll pay."_

"_How long will it be, an hour?"_

"_Oh, no, all night probably."_

"_All night? Lily, we have fifth year potions examinations coming up this year, we can't spend our evenings dawdling about in some club. We're under age, anyways. But we have work to do in the morning, and it won't get done if we spend all night out. We're finishing our seventh batch of eckonidra solution since June—isn't that exciting enough?"_

Yes, perhaps he was too much of a driver. Yes, perhaps he made her stay up late all summer and work her fanny off until she would excel. What did it bring him?

"All right, so I admit—I wanted her to succeed more than I desired praise for myself. Is that so wrong? I was in love with her. I wanted her to be a genius, I wanted to be able to glorify her and wear her proudly on my arm, for all to admire and say, 'Damn, there's the most amazingly brilliant couple in England'. I wanted her to be superb, of intellectual contour and interest, keenly motivated to learn and be taught. Slughorn recognized that I was a Pince, thus to him it was only natural that I excel in potions, for my mother's line has always been expert in the subject."

"So it seemed more of a triumph, to you, to help a virtual nobody rise than to simply reaffirm a tradition of talent?"

"Yes."

Luna looked to the floor, shaking her head. "That's the most selfless thing I've ever heard, but I believe it's also the most selfish."

He was astonished. "What? I've never considered myself more than slightly selfish."

"But it is, in a twisted way," Luna replied. "You wanted her to be an intellectual and a genius. You wanted her to overcome the Muggleborn stigma. You wanted her to be something that she was not. You wanted her to be more acceptable in your haughty mind, raised to unconsciously despise Muggles because of your father's actions to your mother. You wanted her to be worthy of you. That's not how love works, Sev. You can't change people like that."

Such a comment was more striking than anything anyone had ever told him before, or so it seemed at the moment.

"I suppose . . . I suppose I was trying too hard with her," he confessed. "But I loved her before she knew a penny about magic at all!" he protested almost angrily.

"Sure, but you nevertheless were unsatisfied with that and wanted to improve her."

He settled back on the cushions, drawing himself away from Luna.

"Hell. So . . . so . . ." But he could not find the words to express the tumult within him.

She patted his shoulder. "I suppose it is all understandable, though. She was the first witch you ever saw."

He sat up when she said that. "You're right. She was the first witch I'd ever seen beyond my mother."

"Maybe that can help you."

"Maybe." At this, he rose from the bed and shook out his rumpled clothes. "It's almost seven now. When's your first class?"

"Nine."

"You ought to go get some rest for a bit. If you got as little sleep as you look that you did, I should say you ought to stop thinking at night altogether."

At this gentle imperative, she followed his lead and neatly rearranged the bed-covers.

"See you in a bit," she said quietly, and headed for the door.

"I appreciated this, Luna," he called just as her hand reached he knob. She smiled at him sunnily, nodded, and dispatched herself groggily to bed.

_Well, classes as usual today, I suppose. _

* * *

_Hm. Not as long as usual, but, again, I typed the majority of this on a calculator. In Caps Lock. _

_Now please hit that little review button? PLEASE? I love you!_

_Next chapter will have Hermione, a bit more reflection, and then something fun will happen. I promise, this entire thing is not going to be entirely philosophicalish._


	25. Green Goo and an Apprentice

Ch. 25

_Surely the world could get on just as well without the month of October?_

The weeks had passed swiftly and relatively quietly, and all of a sudden the first fortnight of October had disappeared.

_At least there is but half more of this odious month left to pass. _

He had no reason in particular to loathe the season of pumpkin-carving, costume-donning, and apple-bobbing beyond the frivolity of the enterprise. _Too much candy. Too many shifty smiles on the faces of my students. Too many pranks. An unsurmountable excess of lemon drops, too, when Albus was around. He always enjoyed Halloween, his excitement for this holiday only doubled because Christmas was always virtually around the corner. The blasted epicurean. _

The students, indeed, were a bit rowdy today. Even his seventh-year basic class now was restless, fidgeting over their cauldrons as if they expected them to explode. Which, in all probability, could happen with the type of _icterick _they were brewing. This particular remedy for jaundice were rather obscure, and not as efficient as simply surgically removing the stone from the liver, but to those who objected to being split open and then magically sewn together again, the option of swallowing the mixture was not altogether unappealing. It was not exactly difficult to brew, either, but it required a great deal of precision for the duration of the process, and it was because of this that he assigned the first portion today. He would force them to pay attention to his utmost ability, but he still anticipated that some accident would occur.

It did.

"Potter."

He swept behind the boy, trying to hide the tiredness in his voice and mask it with exasperation.

"Potter . . . Potter . . . Potter . . ."

A moss-green ooze venomously crept across the tabletop out of the ugly little teenager's cauldron, soon reaching the side of the desk and dribbling onto the cold stone floor. The boy stared down at the mucus-like substance, an unfathomable expression on his face.

_No reason to skip an opportunity to criticize him. Oh, I shall enjoy this!_

Snape grasped a flat-ended spoon from the community utensil bowl and dipped it into the reeking mess. When he raised the spoon several feet, the goo made its return to the table with the tedium and consistency of melted chocolate.

"I haven't the faintest idea how you even attained that color, Potter." His sarcastic bewilderment brought forth an unwary giggle from the latest girl with a crush on him, whomever it was. (Snape figured out long ago that he usually managed to charm one or two female students per class, and they proceeded not to take anything he said or did without amusement. He usually did not root out the particular offenders of his dignity, but instead treated them so abominably at one point or another that they quickly fled back into the masses that hated him.)

He continued, "Let me guess . . . you added the excrements of your own liver before you stirred it cross-hatch(1)? I daresay a boy of your mental acumen would be apt to confuse the recipe in such a manner—but let me explain, this is meant to _clear_ the liver of an ill person; it is not supposed to have bile _in_ it."

This was strange—the boy seemed to not have any amount of reaction at all. He continued to stare determinedly at the ground, shaking just a trifle but not in a way that suggested suppressed anger. Snape could not see his eyes, however.

"You may clean up the mess now, Potter, and you will receive a D on this assignment."

Still no movement on the boy's part. He stood stock-still, neither saying nor apparently hearing.

Surprised, Snape went on, mainly experimentally to see if the boy was even listening. "Since your already very low general grade will not suffer this well, I will permit you to make it up for the maximum of an A within the week."

The boy squinched his nose and shook his head slightly. Even the uncharacteristic lenience on Snape's part did not startle him from his reverie.

"No, Professor, there's no need. I'll take the D. It's all I deserve, after all."

_What? No fireworks? No holier-than-thou attitude? He, in fact, accepted his fate without a single curse or glare? Where is the illustrious Harry Potter?_

Everyone else apparently had similar lines of thought running through their minds, for all eyes trained on the famous war-hero with expressions of astonishment.

"Do you mean that, Potter? You'll accept the D?"

The boy nodded just enough to affirm the statement. Then, as everyone stared at him with wonder, the boy scooped up his bag, thrust his things haphazardly into it, and stalked out the door. Not once did he raise his head.

The heavy oak door closed with a bang, resounding startlingly in the silence of the dungeons.

Snape realized that now they all were staring at him, the little brats.

"Go on, get to work. No need to stand about gawping, or I'll give the whole lot of you D's."

Furiously, the children grabbed objects and began banging industriously, making a pretense of consternation simply to cover their amazement and embarrassment. For Eilot Bungee in the corner, who already had finished and bottled his potion, he resorted to staring at his very inkwell as though it had morphed into the most fascinating rock in the world.

_So what the deuce was that all about? _

Snape settled in his straight-backed chair carefully, all of confused. With a gesture, he motioned for Bungee to clean up Potter's mess, and the boy jumped to do so almost enthusiastically. Snape then settled to pondering.

_Potter cared as little as if it were the end of the world. Not as though he was always that adamant about grades, anyways, but still . . . he used to debate whether or not he deserved a certain grade on an assignment when I was altogether too strict on him. This was decidedly strange. I ought to make an investigation. _

Danius Portabella was Potter's assigned deskmate, and, from afar, he appeared just as flustered as everyone else. He bit his lip in fierce, agonized study completely out of place on the usually smiling Hufflepuff. Every once in a while he glanced at Eilot's wandless scrubbing to make sure the other boy did not splash his shoes.

Finally, Danius seemed to be satisfied with his potion, and carefully ladled it into a bottle and corked it. He glanced at Snape as he did so, furtively, but the teacher was waiting for the eye contact. Snape beckoned the boy to approach his desk, and the boy obeyed nervously.

"He didn't add anything strange to his cauldron, sir," the timorous voice of the Hufflepuff whispered, "I was keeping an eye on him."

"It is strange that you were, Mr. Portabella, but it may prove useful to me. What happened then, as far as you know?"

The boy passed his tongue over his lips, anxious. "The thing was, he just . . . well, at the point where we had to turn the cauldron handle to face twelve o'clock, he couldn't find his mitt or something to grab it. I offered him mine, but he just shook his head and refused it. Said it could wait a minute or two."

"Go on."

"So he just stared at it for a bit, and stared at it some more. He didn't seem to be looking at it, though, if you know what I mean, just as though he could see beyond it or something. Like he had a set of magic eyes that could see through the iron and the table and everything, and maybe even the floor-"

"-Yes, I quite understand. Continue."

"Well, then I asked if he wanted to use my mitt again, because I could smell it starting to get rancid-like. And he didn't say anything, just shook his head and went on staring. I frankly don't know what he was seeing, what was so interesting, but he kept on looking. His face was as bad as . . . well, as if he saw his girlfriend doing some other bloke on the floor below us, watching them through the floor."

Snape blinked.

"Has Miss Ginevra been of a habit to . . . ahem, 'do' other boys in the school, beyond the fidelity of her relationship with Mr. Potter?"

"Well, not now, but before she got with Harry, it was common knowledge that she was rather the Gryffindor resident slut."

The boy covered his mouth quickly. "Gods, Professor, I didn't mean-"

"-Never mind, I've said worse myself, Mr. Portabella. But is there any chance she would betray Mr. Potter in such a manner?" 

"No indeed, sir. She's a right lucky girl, and she knows it. She wouldn't dare do such a thing to Harry Potter."

Snape smiled grimly at this. "You would be surprised how many women attached to celebrities do find emotional and physical support beyond their ostensible relationship. And men attached to women celebrities, as well, I suppose." He grew more serious. "But that is why Mr. Potter had problems? He simply left his cauldron unattended for no fathomable reason?"

"Yes sir. The uncanny thing about it is that I remember thinking, when we had started out, that his was looking loads better than mine, and I was wishing I had cut my rosehips finer like he did."

"Anything else you wish to tell me?"

The boy seemed relieved. "No, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Portabella. Seven points to Hufflepuff."

_Hm. Quite interesting. It would seem that our wonderful Mr. Potter has been thinking much too hard about something. Possibly his little girlfriend, but, then again, possibly not. I wonder where he went._

. . . X x X . . .

He spent the duration of time after a hasty lunch at Eden grading the last number of papers for 7th year Advanced potions, which he held that afternoon. As usual, he rather enjoyed the class; since that accident of Lacey Ryans the first week, there was no further events of the sort. He felt, too, that perhaps the students were actually getting to understand the material they were getting into, which, so early in the year, was the mark of an outstanding graduating class.

Also as usual, Luna stayed after class for a bit, helping to clean up and whatnot, filling him with her happy chatter about recent developments with Neville. He had _taken her to Hogsmede last weekend! _and he had offered to _bring her home for the Christmas holidays! _and she knew _what exactly to give him for Christmas! _He feigned disinterest, but only because Hermione Granger had not left yet.

The Gryffindor spent forever in putting her books away, and was still doing so after everyone else had disappeared to dinner; she proceeded to loiter about, assisting Luna in tidying up, and then simply leafing through her potions book disinterestedly. After Luna was finished telling him demurely all about the selection of plant-pins she had _seen at a pretty little garden shop in Liverpool _thelast time she was there, the girl easily skipped out to allow Hermione the desired audience with her favorite ghost.

"I hope you don't mind me bothering you, Professor, I'm sure you've got quite a lot to do with yourself before dinner, but I'd like to talk to you."

He was settled back at his desk, and felt very prim and official in such place. Luna had straightened up his papers unasked, and he was in the process of sorting everything into its proper disarray.

"I'm not much of anything to talk to, Miss Granger, but if you have something you wish to convey, pray do not hurry yourself for my sake. My tasks this evening are minimal in number."

Hermione nodded graciously. "Right. Well, first off, Professor, I think I should tell you—Harry tried to kill himself this morning after he got out of your class, just before lunch."

_I was not expecting anything of this kind. Well!_

His surprise was understated in his expression—the classic arched eyebrow. "Indeed? How so?"

"You are so morbid! Imagine, the first thing you ask is not 'is he all right?' but 'how did he try and kill himself?' So heartless!" He looked at the girl, indignant and almost purulent as she spat out the words. The affront, on her part, was rather amusing.

Calmly, he replied, "I am, by nature, rather callous, and will admit to that, Miss Granger. But you did not answer either question, you may note."

Granger took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "All right. First, he went into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and lay in the bath head down until Ginny found him. He'd sent a note to her room, and I suppose he thought he would be dead by the time she arrived to find him. As it was, she found him there, and necessitated as much first aid as she could provide until Myrtle returned with Madame Pomfrey."

"Myrtle, of course, did nothing to prevent him?"

"She was rather not averse to the idea of his death, actually. I believe she was almost encouraging him."

Snape rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Selfish girl."

"She is, isn't she? But, second, he's all right now. Still in Madame Pomfrey's care, but she says he'll recover. He doesn't have much of an explanation, though, which is interesting."

"And why you came to talk to me?"

She paused. "No, I had other reasons, this is just something major I thought I ought to let you know about. Madame Pomfrey did not want to tell Professor McGonagall for some reason about this—said something to the effect that it would devastate her—so she asked that I come to you."

"She was right to not let Minerva know about this," Snape replied softly, thoughtful. "I believe I can trust myself in telling you, Miss Granger, that Professor McGonagall is rather ill. A great shock like this would be very detrimental for her health."

Hermione seemed shocked herself. "Really? She looks the same way she's looked for forever, at least in my opinion."

"Its not necessarily something that would show, Miss Granger, it's more internal. I don't want to give away the specifics being that I have no legal obligation or right to do so, but-"

"-Is it cancer?"

_Just like her to figure it all out without me saying anything. _

"Again, as it is not my information to give . . . I did not tell you." But he nodded to confirm her suspicion.

"Quite." She seemed to chew over that for a few moments, possibly imagining a life without McGonagall in it. It was hard for Snape to think of, as well.

"But, Professor Snape, you're evading answering me again. I want to know what happened in class that might have triggered this."

"You are posing as an unofficial investigator?"

She seemed a bit put-off. "Rather." Taking a deep breath she shifted her weight from one foot to another uneasily. "But I'm trying to help my friend, Professor. And he's not talking to me. Therefore, I must talk to other people. I believe it is completely necessary. He wouldn't do this for no reason."

In an instant, she seemed to assume a herculean amount of confidence, and, suddenly, she rose from the foremost desk where she sat and stalked wrathfully to the front of his desk. "Did you say or do anything, Professor Snape? If, perhaps, you were unusually brutal . . ." She leaned over his desk in a strongly offensive manner, drawing her nose as close to his as possible. It seemed almost sexual, but her eyes spoke otherwise.

"If you were unusually brutal . . ." she threatened again, but appeared to be thinking desperately for something to say beyond that statement. " . . . things might not be so wonderful for you."

He laughed bitterly. "As if they were now?"

She stood upright again, supercilious and haughty. "Just because you are dead, Professor, does not mean that I can not make your existence on this earth another hell."

"I am sure you could, but you would be antagonizing without purpose." He sighed with resignation._ Time to stop playing with her. _

"Miss Granger, I swear that today, in class, I committed upon him none but my usual scathing remarks when he let his cauldron overflow and spill—but, actually, I made my reprimand less potent by offering him a chance to make up his grade of D. I fully expected him to take up the offer, but he instead refused and stomped out of the room. That is the essence of what happened, and if you have any cause for doubt, call upon any of the students in the class. If you need a roster, you may have it."

Here, he pushed forward a thin sheet of parchment with the names of the students on it from Harry's class. Granger took it almost skeptically, then read it over with a cursory glance.

"This seems in order," she said, a bit constrainedly. "Thank you, Professor."

"Certainly." At this, he assumed a less formal position and leaned forward over his desk slightly, drawing his hands together and propping his chin upon them. "So, Miss Granger, you said that this business was not the reason that originally brought you here, but an unfortunate consequence of the eventualities of earlier today. What was, then, your main intent in coming to speak to me?"

"Oh. Well, I have two reasons, actually." She seemed a bit out of ease.

"Pray sit down again, if you would care to."

The girl obeyed, now altogether a completely different person than she had been before. Before she had been almost as splenetic as Snape commonly was, full of ire and anger and vivacity as he had not seen her act in weeks. Now, though, all that had drained out of her, and she seemed as unfortunate and miserable as he remembered her looking since Ron's preliminary attack.

"Do you care to explain, Miss Granger, or would you care to delay this conversation to another date?"

_She ought to be in bed. Asleep. Getting some well-deserved rest. Gods, I wonder how often Minerva has let her over the floo to St. Mungo's. I certainly have avoided it for so many weeks myself . . . but I fear the girl has not. I would not put it past her to visit every day. _

"No, no, I came here to talk and I fully intend to finish." The call upon her efficiency brightened her a bit—well, no, not brightened her, but livened her somewhat. She appeared less like a lost sheep and more like the precise, damnably demanding Hermione Granger.

"Well, it's like this, Professor Snape. My first issue of discussion is about Ron." Again, her voice and face became visibly grayer. "He's not been faring awfully well. I don't know if you've seen him in a while, but I go and visit him every afternoon at the first opportunity—I try to help him come to his senses, but he refuses everything I say and will only listen to his own thoughts. It's . . . it's really very terrible."

She settled back in the chair, losing the rigidness that had accompanied her until this point and collapsed into a slouch(2). "I don't know how to describe how awful it is. He's not the same anymore. I mean, of course, essentially he is, but in some manner he's quite different. Tainted, somewhat. I am trying to help him, but it's not working much. There's only one thing I can think I can facilitate, but even that has been rejected."

Her eyes drew to her ghostly teacher's, which had assumed an almost sympathetic glaze. "That's where I think you can help, sir, if you do not object. It may seem rather silly, but it might save him."

The girl seemed gratified that he seemed interested. "I am not partial to your boyfriend's family, but, as a human being, I am concerned with his welfare. It distresses me as well to see such a virile figure as Mr. Weasley in such straits as he is now. Please, let us discuss the idea you wish to propose."

She smiled at him, which was a lovely thing. Her teeth, he noticed, were no longer as long as they used to be. It was almost shocking how he found that he missed seeing them. As her hand ran through her luxuriant chestnut ringlets, signifying her frustration and hesitation, he saw that, really, she was quite prettier than she used to be. The image in his head that came to mind when he heard the words 'Hermione Granger' were really along the lines of his first memories of her—a buck-toothed eleven-year-old with frizzy hair to compare with Trelawney's. Now she had finally, he decided, reached the age that girls were supposed to blossom.

"I want Ron to have Muggle medicines."

The pronouncement finally edged its way out of her lips, forced its way into the void of space between them.

He started. "Really?" Dubious though he was, he remained curious.

"Yes. After all, they have their own victims to schizophrenia and the like, and they have actually composed some rather ingenious palliative drugs. They balance the chemical imbalance in the human brain which is supposed to cause the disease. I have done extensive research-"

(Snape groaned unintentionally)

"-and I'm fairly certain the effects would be advantageous to bettering his condition. At least, better than how he is now. They won't completely cure him, because this is the sort of disease that is impossible to rectify in its entirety as far as humans know currently, but it will prevent him from . . . from thinking the terrible things he thinks now. Keep him from doing dangerous things. Give him a chance to live a normal life, not be hospitalized forever."

Snape was not sure if he liked the sound of all this. It sounded good, but he always was cynical when the notion of Muggleness had anything to do with it.

"So, have you brought this up to his Psychic?"

Hermione nodded, glum. "Indeed. But he dismissed the idea completely. He cares nothing for anything that has to do with Muggles."

_Hm. I'm biased that way too._

"Well, Miss Granger, most of the wizard world are. I am a bit wary of Muggle inventions and such, myself."

She seemed a bit sad. "You have every reason to be. You would be astonished at some of what Muggles have created."

_Now, to surprise her. _"Referring to the atomic bomb?"

She was surprised, and blinked at him.

"I grew up with a Muggle father, Miss Granger. I am not as blissfully ignorant as you would assume."

"Oh." She nodded. "Of course, of course, how stupid of me."

_Gods. _"You are far from stupid, Miss Granger. Inordinately stubborn, yes, but hardly stupid." _Well, I gleaned a smile from her. Huzzah. _

"Thank you. But I was hoping, Professor . . . he might take it better from you . . . Dr. Drosselmeyer, I mean."

"We don't call them doctors, we call them psychics."

"Oh, right. Well, in the Muggle world, psychics are like . . . well, depending on the pronunciation, they are usually like palm readers, unless the word abbreviates physician."

He thought about that. "True. But, yes, Miss Granger, I will talk to him. He does not much like me—last time I went to the hospital, he took an instant aversion to me because I was meddling with his patient's mind—but I will try, underlining my authority over the patient."

"Thank you, I appreciate it. But, I must say, once he agrees to it, someone will have to take Ronald to a Muggle psychiatrist for the prescription. It can't just be bought, and I don't think Psychic Drosselmeyer has the capability to get the correct dosage anyways."

_These details are quite important, I should think. _"I'll keep that in mind." He leaned back as far as his straight chair would allow, and then asked, "But what is the third item of discussion you had?"

She had looked more relaxed while they bantered about psychics, but now she stiffened. "Well, Professor, this is more about me than anyone else, if you know what I mean."

"Mhm. Continue."

"Well, I simply would like to ask you . . . well, I have been thinking about my future lately. What do you think I would be good at?"

He never had thought about this before. "Well, I should say . . . some place at the ministry, perhaps?"

"But I've heard you say that all the chaps at the ministry are fools. I don't think I'm a fool, and therein you do me an injustice in that point."

He laughed. "Well, I don't know where you heard me say that . . . but it's perfectly true. That's why I assume you should go, actually—sort things out. Put the squalid wretches in some amount of order. I did not mean it as an offense."

"I did not think you did, for once. What do you think about me aspiring to be an attorney for Wizengamot?"

"Ah!" There, she would do excellently in that position. "Yes, I would say that would be an excellent post for you . . . never a dull moment in the law business, though it can be rather dry at times. I have dabbled in the study, though never pursued it seriously. But I did consider it at your age."

"I have considered it seriously, since I began to be aware that I want to do something in the Wizard world. But I have decided that it's not for me." She left off on a cliff-hanger. Not being the sort to oblige when people did that in conversations, Snape simply left off, patiently. She continued in a moment.

"I want, Professor, to take up an apprenticeship."

"Under what? You wish to be a master of Transfiguration?"

She shook her head in dissent.

"Not my idea. Transfiguration is rather menial, to be truthful . . . and a bit boring after a while."

He thought. "Arithmancy, then?"

"No. I like the order and method of arithmancy, but it tends to be very repetitive, and I don't like that."

Snape dreaded to ask, but he thought he understood now. "This is my last guess—I am not in the habit of playing games like this, and I frankly do not enjoy it. So, you wish to pursue Potions?"

The girl nodded eagerly. "Yes, precisely. I want to pursue Potions, professor. As an apprentice under you. I want to eventually either teach or begin a private plant. Teach, probably."

"Show me up at my own game, then?"

She smiled, and again he was entranced by her beautiful smile. Were her parents not dentists or something?

"Rather."

He paused dramatically.

_What the deuce? I'm amazed . . . when she first came in here she was completely angry at me, but now she's begging to be my assistant. My apprentice. I've never had an apprentice before. No one would ask me, of all people. No matter my qualifications. I suppose that's mainly because so few people want to pursue this line anyways, most consider it too dangerous or too tedious . . . but she wants to. And under my guidance. This is one of the strangest days I can remember in a while._

"You can't possibly say _no_ to me, can you?"

He still said nothing.

_No, I can't say no to her. She does not deserve so cruel a fate. An eager mind is not to be wasted. But how can I deal with this? I've barely come to accept people in my time of life . . . barely emerged from my continual, consistent loathing of mankind. I still tend towards misanthropic sometimes. I don't know if I can manage having a girl her age at my heels all the time. It seems that it'd be too inappropriate, even though so many men have done so in the past. It's not a new thing for a man to take a female apprentice. Hell, Voldemort did it, but it wasn't the kind of apprenticeship that I rejoice in having partaken in now! Or any other woman, for that matter._

"Come now, what student is better qualified in this whole blasted school?"

_No one, dammit._

He sighed. "Miss Granger, I must say that, of all the students in this school, you are definitely the most qualified. However, I am not sure if I am emotionally capable. I'm a solitary person, who prefers time alone whenever I can get it. I am quite loathsome from time to time, as you well have observed over the past few years. I am pedantic, irascible, and conceited. You wouldn't want to be bound to me for as long as an apprenticeship mandates. I can suggest to you a number of potions masters within England and Europe whom I am in contact with—our sort tend to band together, somewhat—and you can request from them. I will recommend you to them with the highest esteem. But I will not take the task. I cannot undertake the task."

Her eyes would have melted a heart of ice, and they did have some pronounced affect on Snape's vaporous one.

"Please, Professor? I don't care about your temper or anything. After seven years of studying under you, I'm able to fend for myself under those sieges, I think. And I don't want to go with anyone I don't know—it'd be like taking candy from strangers or something. I'd be perpetually scared the whole time. And Slughorn is just disgusting. I won't be seen in public anywhere near him. I beg of you. Please take me on after the school year ends?"

She rose from her chair, advanced towards his desk, pleadingly took his hand and wrung it thoroughly.

"Please, Professor. If, if for any other reason . . . let it be a sort of compensation to you for my not even attempting to save you . . . please . . . it would alleviate the guilt that has been upon me since your death . . . knowing I could have at least tried and I didn't . . ."

_Oh gods. How could I refuse . . . she's crying over me. _

Her voice broke, and she gasped as sobs erupted from her gentle breast.

_Please. Please stop crying, you'll win me over. Don't. Please. Oh gods, I'm solidifying . . ._

She knelt at his feet, begging, imploring.

_I can't refuse her like this. I don't want her in the hospital like Weasley. It's the least I can do to help her._

"All right. Fine. You win. I'll take you on as apprentice when the school year ends. Now vrous!"

At this, Hermione leaped up and kissed him on both cheeks, like a continental greeting.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she demonstrated, then dashed to her bookbag. In two seconds more, she was out the door, screaming "Thank you!" again, and blowing him a kiss.

_You're an old fool, Snape. You'll end up paying for your laxity. _

_Who cares?!_

. . x . . X . . x . .

(1) Cross-hatch: as in, cutting once across the center of the potion vertically, then once horizontally.

(2) By the way, for those who don't know, the British definition of 'to slouch' is different from the American 'to slouch'. British 'slouching' is actually good for your back, surprisingly. American is more like hunched forwards, head down, a sulky position. British is sort of Fiyero-ish, sliding one's butt to the end of the chair and leaning back so there's an amount of space between one's chair and the back. It's very relaxed. Haha. By the end of the day, that's the position I usually assume in French class.

_I'm not saying if this is a HGSS fic or not yet, just to hold you people in suspense. :D All I'm going to say is that I've already introduced Snape's female love to-be. At least her name (maybe her person!) has been introduced more than once, in more than one chapter. And it's not Luna, as I already said--please, I wouldn't lie to you. I already have it planned out, but I'd love to see who you suspect it will end up being. Just vote in your review. _

_This chapter was brought to you with the patronage of Tchaikovsky's The Snow Maiden, which is a Russian opera I simply adore. Can't tell you what it's about, but I love it. I whistle arias in the halls at school and people look at me funny. Haha!_


	26. An Angst Ridden Teen and Two Catholics

Ch. 26

_My dear readers, I must apologize for lack of updating these past few weeks. Here are my excuses. 1. Finals in high school are NOT FUN. 2. I've been doing a bunch of community service stuff lately—probably more than I should be doing. 3. I've been in the process of applying to a particular scholarship that might mean I could go away to school next year, something I desire very much. Which so doing would ensure I got more writing time. 4. I have piano exams on the first of March, for which I am unfortunately cramming because I've been too busy to devote as much time as I ought to have all year. 5. My community college classes start next week. 6. It's been raining, and I've been enjoying the once-in-a-decade series of storm weather that, in the desert region I live, is quite rare. 7. I have been having a lot of trouble with my parents lately, and have been on-and-off grounded from the computer. 8. I have been designing an extensive genealogy series for Snape's to-be love affair(s). 9. I myself have been Snappishly depressed. Overwork, mainly, but some other things, too . . ._

_This chapter is proudly sponsored by the 7 reviews I got since posting Ch. 25, plus the 90's band _Naked to the World,_ of which I am an ardent fan. (Well, maybe I'm biased . . . I'm quite close to the lead violinist, and it's virtually the only professional band I've ever seen live.) Look 'em up on iTunes, though._

_Que sera sera. Enjoy this chapter! And listen to David Bowie's _Life on Mars? _simply because it rocks._

. . x . . X . . x . .

"Mr. Potter, I beg you give some amount of information about the reason for your actions, otherwise we may be obliged to take more drastic measures than we have hitherto employed."

Snape paced exasperatedly in front of the infirm hero, vaguely aware that he resembled an angry mother hen chastising the runt member of her brood. Potter himself lay in bed, eyes half closed and barely breathing. Although prostrate and a trifle bluish, someone had nicely fluffed with a warm towel and dried his clothes, so to all extents and purposes Harry Potter was perfectly 'all right.' No one was allowed to visit him, nevertheless--not until Snape got some tangible understanding of the catalyst to the boy's strange and relatively incomprehensible action.

The deputy headmaster knew not why the boy had succumbed to doing the deed Snape so often contemplated in his youth and passively committed after his attack from the Dark Lord. Snape felt the boy quite unjustified, whereas he felt that he himself had perfectly sane and understandable motivations for the whims. Even now, after the fact, he scorned the idea of Harry Potter attempting his life; why would the famous, the well loved, the admired, the revered, the courageous, and the venerated even try to pull such a stunt? Literally, to throw his life down the drain of a bathtub?

No, no matter what anyone said, harry Potter was spoiled—spoiled beyond rancid, beyond fermented, beyond moldy. With the war over, and with no more victories to make, his desire to stay in the public eye brought upon this sickening episode. This was no more than an attempt to create a splash! Throw some markedly undeserved attention his way. Engineered, too, so no real harm would come to his precious little body: had not Ginny Weasley conveniently discovered his well-placed note of suicide in enough time to bring down the authorities and revive her by-then-unconscious boyfriend? He might have made it harder for her if he insisted on actually being thorough in his self-destruction. Or else, they were in cahoots the entire time, which would be the more satisfactory explanation. It was too uncanny to be coincidence that he survived, after all.

_I do not intend for him to get the publicity this will undoubtedly bring, then._ Firmly resolved on this decision, Snape realized his gratefulness to Pomfrey's discretion, avoiding Minerva for as long as possible as long as the problem existed. McGonagall ought to know sooner or later, but it was better they waited until Potter was completely 'beyond the clutches of his impulse', as Pomfrey put it. Surely, if word got around to Minerva, the entire school would know about it within two days. There would be an assembly, a great and furious inquisition—the after-result of which would prove that Potter was not responsible for his actions, but someone else, likely from Slytherin. On this last point, Snape was positive. _That is the sort of thing Potter wants, and, by Jove, I'm not going to give it to him._

"So, Potter. Still suffer from the lamentable case of langlock? Or do you have anything to say for yourself?"

His eyes trained on the mug of hot chocolate, cradled in the boy's limpid arm. Two drops of verituserum would not hurt anybody, much less the great Harry Potter who could surpass death brought on by both himself and the most evil entity of the 20th century. If only he would drink more of it . . . as far as he noticed, the boy had merely sipped absently when Pomfrey presented it, possibly just for show. The Madame had left just moments before, summoned by the slightly shrill voice of the librarian Madame Pince, and they were in Pomfrey's office. _And neither will probably show her face again for a good while, I warrant. _

Not that the boy would at all care to guess the nature of his nurse's sexual orientation, likely, in his state. He stared ahead of him, lost in thought and speculation. He was shaking slightly, almost imperceptibly, but made no other motion.

_Pacing back and forth will do no more than waste my energy_, Snape decided, and stopped abruptly to toss himself into the visitor's chair at the bedside.

"Merlin Potter, if you have nothing else to say, then perhaps an explanation of the situation from my point of view would be illuminating," he suggested, more to induce the boy to talk than anything else, but Potter merely retained the bland luster in his eyes.

To seem as nonchalant as possible, Snape imitated the pose of private detectives in their leisure, at least those from old B-class 40's movies. The effect—phantasmal heels propped upon the white bar foot-board of Potter's bed, chair precariously balanced on its back legs, arms crossed as though his coat were threadbare—was distinctly menacing. Almost anyone else assuming such a position could expect nothing but a jeering ridicule, but somehow he pulled it off terribly, even with the pearly sheen of his complexion.

Of course, no threatening demeanor would cure Potter of his immunity to all independent variables at this time. Never mind the fact that he always refused to be afraid of Snape no matter what the soul did to be intimidating.

Creakingly, Snape leaned back in the chair and scowled. _Potter is going to need some lessons in appreciation, that's what._

"As your attitude demonstrates, Mr. Potter, you seem to be severely out of sorts. Perhaps they have a bed in St. Mungo's mental ward for you? There might be an empty place beside Ronald Weasley, if you are so inclined."

Not a twitch. Not a flinch. The boy seemed to listen, but neither voiced or showed reaction.

Snape was angry enough to fling his glass-shattering rock.

"Perhaps not there, but in a place they reserve for _impetuous angst-ridden teenagers who resent the fact that they are not the center of attention to the entire world?_"

The response, unpredictably, was no more than a deplorable sigh from the miserable boy.

"Just leave me alone, would you?" Harry turned to look at his teacher despairingly. "I just want to see Ginny."

"Miss Weasley will not be permitted in here unless you provide so much as an inkling of an explanation. Perhaps we can assist in resolving the problem, whatever it is." Though his anger towards the boy still raged, it died a little as the boy's eyes . . . Lily's eyes . . . gazed meltingly at him.

Eyes he would do anything to oblige.

. . x . . X . . x . .

"_Sev, please take me ice skating on the lake? It's quite frozen, and everyone else is going."_

"_We really ought to study . . . you know very well we have a potions exam tomorrow."_

"_Hambug. We've been practicing for that since last Saturday. _You _know very well _that!"

"_Well . . . I must admit, I've never ice skated in my life."_

"_Neither have I . . . not on a real lake before."_

Whereupon, he could not refuse the intense, pleading gaze, and acquiesced to take her. He hated the whole experience, and fell on his sorry bum more often than not, jarring his bones and teeth, only to later wonder why he made such a stupid blunder as to even agree.

"_That was so mean of them. I never thought Potter—even Potter--would have the audacity to say anything so crude and nasty."_

"_I quite agree, Lily. He's a despicable bastard. But you should not let his words hurt you—oh, Jove, Lily, don't cry. Please don't. He's not worth it, really, believe me."_

"_I know, Sev, but please Sev . . . hold me." _

And he had awkwardly put his arm around her, then impulsively drew her as close to him as he could manage. Her nose pressed against his shoulder, and his chin met the top of her ear, buried in her fragrant auburn hair. He fancied he smelt strawberry. For a few blissful moments, everything seemed impeccable, beautiful, and heavenly.

Then those wretched eyes looked up at him, her chin lifting just a bit, provocative and almost imploring.

He wanted to kiss her.

"_What do you want, Lily?"_

His question poised softly in midair, hoping she might take advantage of the opportunity, hoping her words would echo his own thoughts.

"_I want you to give up the dark arts, Severus."_

If it had been so simple as to answer 'I will', then he would have done so for those eyes alone. Yet he had turned away, aloof, surprised. As usual, his sense of romanticism failed him.

. . x . . X . . x . .

_I should have said I would,_ he pondered for the thousandth time, _Why did I not?_

A helpless amusement tinted the eyes of Harry Potter now, and Snape blinked back into reality. _No, those are now tainted by Jame's unabashed jest and taunting. What a pity._

"Are you sure Ginny couldn't come in, Professor? I would think you understood the circumstances very well."

The hardly well-contained smirk of the boy was quite unhelpful to Snape's humiliation. The ghost, highly irritated, could not help but scowl perversely at the hideous beaming countenance that so resembled the bane of his existence since childhood.

"Shod off, Potter," he muttered tersely under his breath. "Mind the fact that I'm the adult in this situation, and your superior."

"You like to think that," Harry replied demurely, with a complacence inherited, no doubt, from the insatiable old fool that was Albus Dumbledore.

_Temper, temper, Severus. Needn't get your blood racing. _

_Well, dammit, I don't even have blood anymore._

He turned away with a slow, vengeful glare, all resolve built over the past few weeks to forget Lily now lost.

_He might have been mine. With hideous oily hair and a Roman nose. And yet he is not. How do I even have the presence of mind to even gaze at him? He could have been mine . . ._

_Odd how he has Lily's eyes, but James' poor eyesight. _

The revelation caused him to turn and look at the bemused boy once again. To appear as if he had a purpose in doing so, he quickly demanded:

"Mr. Potter, in order to verify that you are of sound mind, we need to confirm and possibly eliminate the sources of trauma that so affect you."

The boy seemed to be getting better already.

"Oh, but why should I tell you?"

It took all the strength within him to keep from going at the child's throat. As it was, he stood angrily and advanced to the easiest proximity for the action. Snape had strangled men before, and with the soft childlike skin Potter still wore, it promised to be a most delightful experience, from his fingers' perspective.

But Lily would not appreciate if her son rose from the earth with the report that, 'Oh, yes, well, the way I died was, the ghost of Snape throttled my neck'.

_Hang Lily. _

A swipe at the boy's cherub face reminded him of his lack of senses, his inability to feel the tangible. He drew his hand back to his side, but he remained standing.

_I'm much given to slapping people lately, am I not?_

Harry looked genuinely astonished at this point.

"Your insolence is getting beyond what my nerves can stand, boy," choked the ghost, beginning to feel his stomach churn with his emotions. "Let's get this done quickly and efficiently, and we'll both be much better off. Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Set off by the shock, Harry took a quick gulp of the cocoa unthinkingly and appeared very nervous.

"I'll give you an explanation, Snape, but only because I want to see Ginny. Don't let anyone else in to see me, though, unless Hermione wants to come."

"Give the instruction to Madame Pomfrey and I assure you, she will see to it," declared Snape, seating himself in the straight-backed visitor's chair once more. "Please begin."

The first words from the boy's mouth were the last things on earth that Snape expected.

"Well, I suppose I'm just sick of all the attention I'm getting as a war hero and stuff."

Snape's eyelids fluttered twice as he gaged the information against the boy's poker face.

The boy's unhappiness showed through his slightly trembling lip and glassy—_no, I am not looking at his eyes. _

"Every time I go to Hogsmede, Diagon Alley, or anywhere, people who are perfect strangers stare at me. It really gets unnerving after a while. I mean, when I was actually doing stuff to deserve all of that admiration, it was different. I was on a quest to kill Voldemort. I was actively fighting against the most dark force of our time. But now . . . now they treat me no different, and I'm stuck trying to live a normal life when no one wants to treat me like I'm normal."

_Isn't that a familiar story, only backwards? _

"That's all I ever wanted to be in life. Normal." Harry looked at his lap despairingly. "I didn't ask to be magic. I didn't ask to be famous. I didn't ask for anything besides to be just like all the other kids on the block . . . kids who didn't live in cupboards under the stairs . . . kids who had parents who loved them . . . kids who didn't have strange things happen to them. Grow up, go to school, get a job, get a wife, get retired, travel around the world. That kind of normal."

Snape sat stonily, wondering how much of this was truth and how much was calculated balderdash. He refused to believe that he was moved by the new point of view—_isn't that what the boy wants, for me to fall under his spell, for me to see that we have more in common than most would think? He is performing a well-rehearsed string of rigmarole to evoke my sympathy. My empathy. _

_Because, of course, we are so different, after all, but we want the same goal. Well, if he's telling the truth, now. I'm at the lower end of the spectrum, obviously, trying to climb my way to the middle, creeping from hatred to having friends, at least. And he's at the top—adored to no end, supremely attractive, and everyone loves him—but he wants less. Truthfully, I would switch places with him in a heartbeat, why doesn't he know that? To not appreciate the wonderful life he has gained is the greatest sin upon all measures. _

"You think things are so different for you," Harry stated, interrupting Snape's contemplations, "But it hasn't been."

The potions master scowled. "Potter, you speak with the latitude of a squirrel."

"No, really," the boy debated dully. "Our completely opposite situations bring us together. I've thought a lot about this, and it makes sense to me. Now you, Snape, I'm sorry to say, have always been hated by the world. Me, up since I was eleven, the opposite. But I don't want to be at this level any more. I've been hated enough myself to know how you feel. When I was living with my aunt and uncle, there was never even the smallest scrap of love for me. When Voldemort returned in my fourth year, everyone except a few people—Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore, the rest of the Weasleys, Sirius, the Order . . . and you . . . --everyone else hated me for being a liar."

_Whereas I merely hated you for being the son of your father. _

Snape rolled his eyes. Harry grinned.

"Well, you hate me still for other reasons, but it doesn't matter. Didn't matter. You didn't think I was a liar. You believed in me, you tried o help me learn the skills that should have saved me, should have saved Sirius."

"I don't know that I especially enjoy that prospect, that I might have saved your godfather."

Harry gave a small smile that almost made Snape faint at its resemblance to Lily's curving lips.

"Well, Mr. Potter," the potions master ghost sneered superciliously, "Perhaps your impressions are not quite accurate. Perhaps I'm not as forlorn as you imagine. Perhaps I do not want anyone to find me a friend. Perhaps you know—significantly--less than you believe."

_I'm such a liar . . . just because I hate to admit he is right!_

"Besides, Potter, what do you know about the human psyche? Hyman psychology? You spent half your life locked in a cupboard, abused and forsaken—is that what makes you a philosopher?"

He was infuriated, but not so much a before. _How dare Potter impose himself by thinking I was so shallow as to be understood by his type!_

"And by what right or decree of nature do you feel you can simply waltz about, analyzing my life? You don't know the half of what I endured. Really--how dare you say things as you have unto now? I do not want your critique or your perceptions, neither your ideas nor speculations, Mr. Potter. In fact," he reminded aloud, "these issues have no bearing whatsoever on the case. This concerns you alone, and I am only the authority in charge of investigating your foolishness. Pray keep to the task at hand, lest I become any more irate and you suffer the consequences."

Potter began to protest, but the deputy headmaster's glare quelled him.

"Now, to continue our business," Snape brusquely went on, "Give me a concise, straight answer as to why you attempted to kill yourself. And no involving me or my past history, I _request_." The satire in his tone was disquieting, and Harry actually complied.

"Um . . . well, it was not so much as a specific reason. I just woke up today and decided today was the day I was going to kill myself."

_Oh, isn't that just the worst feeling in the world? Goddamit, if he knew how often such ideas graced my mind, I swear . . ._

"It was not the first time I thought so, Professor, and I guess it won't be the last. But for some reason, during your class, my internal clock came to a halt, and all I could think about was what it would be like without me in the world."

_How often I myself have played that terrible game . . .very _It's A Wonderful Life_-esque, though. I officially hate that movie. . . _"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard any person say."

"Well, Snape," Harry frowned, seeming to get exasperated, "It's something I've come to doing rather a lot. And, I guess, it just got so involved that I had the impression that things would be better for everyone else if I died."

"Who is 'everyone else', Potter, may I ask?" _Alas, but I wish I were more unfamiliar with that concept as well!_

"Um . . . well that's one of the reasons I guess I didn't think it through very well. Or something. I don't know who. Besides maybe you."

_Good gods._

"That's . . ." Snape had intended to say 'that's not true,' but then wondered whether that statement would be a lie or not. His confusion was evident, but Harry took no notice.

"The Malfoys would be a great deal happier, anyways. But no one knows where they went, so I dunno if they would even hear."

"And thus now you have composed yourself as a more rational personage? You assure me, there is no lingering danger of trying to complete your attempt in the near future?"

"Not today."

The words choked a silence out of the ghost, who simply studied the boy.

"Not _ever, _Potter," he corrected.

"So, Professor, how is death today?" asked a cheery shrill voice, and the curtain moved aside to reveal Miss Irma Pince, with an annoyingly superior smirk touched by very red cheeks and ears. Her elaborate coiffure was a bit displaced, and her fingers flitted coolly to her voluminous hair to tighten the many knots that held it together.

"A living hell," snarled Snape, in no mood to deal with the librarian's antics. He left immediately, to report his findings to Pomfrey, just in case Harry might jump out of bed and try to convince the woman that she looked like Hermione. There was no need for him to see that scenario replayed.

. . x . . X . . x . .

" . . . and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom the power, and the glory forever, Amen."

Several much more calm hours later, Snape had no idea what the Lord's prayer had to do with anything, but supposed the Fat Friar—no, Paul Honnete, he had a name now—knew what he was talking about, somewhat.

In keeping with his long-forgotten promise to Professor Sprout, his agreement to visit with the Friar and inquire on his personal state, Snape was now on his knees in an abandoned classroom that, over the years, the Friar had transformed into a decent cupboard chapel. In a proper medieval fashion, a single wooden cross of painted gold hung on the front wall, presiding over a simple altar and a cloth of crimson velvet. Though lacking in opulence, there was a certain poignant dignity about the place that made one want to whip off his hat—whether he wore one or not being irrelevant.

This place being along the outer perimeter of a tower, there were windows of a small nature – but shaped like crosses, and mere slits, at that. The open air nevertheless flowed through in perceptible gusts, once in a while inflicting a sharp spear of wind through their vaporous bodies, sometimes enough to set them off balance by a bit. Judging by the presence of frost along the edge of the cold fire-grate, it was probably about as cold in here as it was outside.

Snape rose to his feet in a docile compliance rather foreign to him.

"Thank you for obliging God, and therein obliging me," Paul declared, a happy but almost forlorn smile gracing his broad countenance. Snape realized that what Sprout said was quite true—the obese monk seemed less than his usual genial self.

"I prefer to think that you came here only secondly to talk to me—for I am but a humble servant to the almighty," Honnete went on, "And, besides, I do not see you up here enough as it is."

"I've never been a very religious man," admitted Snape, a lilt of shame permeating his voice, along with an air of defiance.

"Were you raised Anglican?"

"No, actually, Catholic—but I never took confirmation, since my Muggle father thought my being magic made me automatically a heathen—and I probably attended four services in my life. I know for a fact I was baptized as an infant, but that made no difference to my father."

"Ah, you are like myself then," the Fat Friar murmured, though probably just grasping the idea of Snape's faith rather than the fact that the other ghost did not follow it closely. Carefully, deliberately, he seated himself in the first of a row of five short pews. His bulk took up most of the space, so Snape remained standing in order to best address him.

"As I said, though, I'm not very devout," reestablished Severus, halfway wishing he had not admitted having any contact with the religion of his second-generation Irish father.

"And you prefer it that way, no doubt?" Honnete replied simply, drawing in a slow breath and shaking his head. "It is unfortunate, that. But at least you believe. The last time you were up here to talk to God was some years ago, though."

Snape flinched. He remembered that day, the day Dumbledore had explained how Harry was to die—how Albus too had to die—and, scared and angry, the then-alive potions master had fond his way to the secluded tower in the dead of the night, to ramble to the darkness and allay his fears. It did not seem to do him any good, and he was more irritable the rest of the day for having fallen asleep on the cold floor, at the icon of the Madonna. He did not know Honnete had known of his presence, or much less had been there at all.

There had been no reason to return since, really—he never was into the whole 'confessions' regime; the idea once occurred to him that he would end up spending days revealing every malicious thought and deed he committed. After he did the actual kill of Dumbledore, there had been a great number of postliminary procedures to take care of, in the name of the Dark Lord and such, so after those were over, he made a very emotional prayer to a haphazard shrine of piled stones lost somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. Since then—well, he always relied on himself rather than an omnipotent being, and thought people who simply relied on God for everything extremely foolish.

_God helps those who help themselves_ was his adage, with certainty, as long as he could remember. He did not even think about God much, beyond swearing, and then usually he said something to the accord of 'gods' or 'Jove', and therein only used the Grecian entities' titles in vain, rather than use a term sacreligious to Christians.

"It does not feel like so long ago," Snape replied quietly, eyes floating to the floor absently. That was the truth, though. The murder of Dumbledore . . . though the old coot had tried to convince him it was euthanasia . . . still pressed heavily on his mind. Usually, he managed to suppress it, but, sometimes late at night, or when his mind was otherwise unoccupied, the list of those he was responsible for the deaths of for little or no reason came to mind. Although Lily was, of course, first and foremost, Dumbledore made a close second in importance. His mind would revert gradually onto the subject, and the weight of his guilt would settle in his stomach, apt to dispute for a good number of hours, or at least until something that required the whole of his attention emerged.

"You should take it upon yourself to be more pious. It might help you," encouraged Honnete. "I sense your mind has been troubled for some long time."

"Perhaps," Snape agreed with nonchalance. "But you yourself, Friar, do not seem so well. Your friends are afraid for you."

The Friar chuckled, but his heart was not in it at all. "I suppose even God's servants may fall to despair," he replied matter-of-factly.

"I would like to help you resolve your problem, if I can." Snape shifted. "At least, if you wish to unburden yourself to me. I might be a bit more responsive than He Who Dwells Upstairs."

The Friar seemed unsure how to take that slightly cavalier comment, but found himself inclined to laugh. "Oh, very well. You may have a point therein. I would talk about it with my dear Professor Sprout, but I fear she would not quite understand. It is actually just a trivial item that weighs so heavily upon my mind, but I shall come to some peace again about it in a year or so, and it shall refuse to problem me for another hundred years or so."

He looked at Snape. "You, I think, would definitely understand more than Pomona."

He took a deep breath again.

"To start with-why do you think I am here in death, as opposed to the eternal paradise?"

He gestured about him with such a melancholia that Snape was already remembering the location of his handkerchief in his sleeve. The potions-master did think a moment before answering. It seemed that the only reasons he could conjure were less than savory. Very likely it was not for the reason Snape had returned—the Friar was too characteristically good-natured and optimistic. At most, he would be crying for joy at his equivalent of King's Cross . . . well, maybe providence could make a mistake.

"Did you fall into . . . ahem . . . exuberant rejoice?"

That was a little vague, and the Friar misunderstood slightly, but still answered the question adequately. _Such the typical Hufflepuff._

"Oh, no, I was quite pleased at the prospect of my death, actually," Paul cheerily responded. "For I imagined that I would be going to eternity, of course. I never did anything ill in my life, so I thought, and I always loved God from my boyhood on. There was no possible way, in my humblest of opinions, that I should not have gone to my reward. But, have you heard, perchance, of the idea that 'monks who abandoned their monastic habit were turned away from the gates of paradise because they were not properly dressed for the occasion?'"

"You're paraphrasing that from somewhere, I seem to recall the words," Snape nodded. "But I would imagine that had something to do with monks who left their habit and abandoned their pious duties . . ." he suggested realistically, but the dour expression of the other prevented him from finishing.

"No indeed. That was the literal interpretation. That is what happened to me," the Friar explained. "At the gate. I died by drowning, you will see, while swimming naked in a secluded lake, enjoying God's good beauties at their most personal level."

Snape's eyebrows elevated significantly. "Gracious. It could not have been a mistake?"

The Hufflepuff ghost raised his hands to the heavens. "God makes no mistakes."

"Oh, true." Snape did not truthfully believe that—creating man was a mistake, in his opinion, and any entity who ever thought to do it was deviously insane.

"The voice said so in great detail, actually," the Friar continued, "The great booming voice, if you will recall it. It said to me: 'We must findeth within ourselves apologies abundant to thee for thy pass into heaven haseth been revoked. Thou hast abandoned thy monastic habit on the side of the lake, and thus forsooth shalst remain undead ever morest!' That is what they said, in the proper language of the time, and nary a word when they were done. Most specific, actually."

"And this perturbs you for a short period of time generally once in a century?" Snape queried skeptically.

"I am a simple man, Severus, and have simple thoughts and desires. When a notion has left my mind, it has left for a long time. And, then, I typically forget the reasons for my unhappiness soon enough, as they grow less and less important." The Friar put a thick finger to his forehead and tapped it. "My mind is not as agile as it used to be, but it still serves its primary purpose, to serve God unconditionally."

"Such devotion is admirable, Friar," responded Severus, hoping that was actually his opinion. "Out of curiosity, though, do you ever wonder if it really was so fair that you were refused after so long and loyal a service, to be denied the one reward you always sought? Do you ever wonder if, perhaps, God was not quite as good and merciful as you think him?"

The gleaming smile of the Fat Friar was somewhat Cheshirian in nature, and quite disturbing.

"In that case, I would tell myself this: 'Satan is speaking to you! You must eliminate his malignant presence from your mind!' And then by this--" (the Friar seized a handy copy of the King James Version, probably kept in the chapel for those non-Catholics who meandered up there and refused to read anything else) "--I eliminate him!"

With that, the Friar hit himself upon the head extremely forcibly with the book, the resounding _thwanks_ bouncing off the silent cold walls eerily.

Snape, spooked by the proceedings, dismissed himself as quickly as he could. He was already composing his report to Pomona in his head as he swept down the corridor, but was sidetracked by the remembrance of the other Hufflepuffs' queer actions.

_Why are all the Hufflepuffs starting to show their slightly crazy sides now? First Pomona herself, and now her best friend, the ghost? _

Once he considered himself a safe distance away, he muttered to the empty halls:

"Thank God I'm not religious."

. . x . . X . . x . .

_Thanks for reading so much so far! Haha. I wrote this chapter especially for Marietta, my dear Catholic friend who I HOPE IS READING THIS. But it brings up something that J.K. barely brings up in the books, which I find highly annoying, the aspect of religion and how it is incorporated into the Wizard world. I have not gone into all of my ideas yet, not by far, on this point, but this is an introduction. _


	27. Preparing to Keep a Promise

**Chapter 27 **

_Current music: Starlight, by Muse. Merlin, if only I could really make music people wanted to listen to all the time. Like them. Ha. _

_Enjoy this chapter. My reviewers have been becoming more and more scarce with time . . . is this getting too boring? I'll try and spice it up a bit. We'll see a bit about how Snape gets his revenge on Skeeter pretty soon, so yeah . . . that will be amusing. _

_Wooh! I made 100,000 words!_

* * *

. . x . . X . . x . . 

The following day, Snape resolved to keep another promise, that made to Hermione concerning the welfare of a certain Ronald Weasley. He fully intended to attempt a second visit to the boy, and this time perhaps prove more useful to the boy's aid.

Stalking into McGonagall's office as though he owned the place—after all, it had been his office the year prior—he made quite clear his intentions.

"Minerva, I am going to St. Mungo's today, to pay my respects to Psychic Drosselmeyer and his patient. Would you have the time to be my escort? My mission may be to your interest."

The old woman seemed to have shrunk in the month since Snape learned of her illness. Perhaps it was an illusion of her hunching figure, but she appeared as diminutive as Queen Victoria, though no less powerful as the esteemed monarch when her eyes rose above her half-glasses to blink at the ghost's sudden entrance. She laughed, then, even her dry chuckle sounding sickly to Snape.

"I do hate it when you walk through doors like that, Severus; it's most unsettling."

The potions master nodded his head, with all the reverence due to a woman who speaks with clear semi-colons in her sentences.

"I do apologize."

At her gesture, he dropped noiselessly into a sturdy Albertan chair. His concerned gaze went unnoticed by her as she continued laboriously scribbling upon a piece of foolscap. After a few minutes of mutual silence, Snape's impatience rising slightly all the while, Minerva lowered her quill.

"What would possibly be of interest to me about your visit today?"

However, her eyes were not as cold as her words; the headmistress' face was alight with curiosity.

Mustering the most effectual and dramatic response, Snape leaned forward, putting his fingertips together in the classic triangular pose.

"The fact that I am going to try and persuade the man that Muggle medicines might benefit the terribly bedridden Mr. Weasley."

A greater look of shock and consternation could not be portrayed any more markedly on her face.

"Muggle?" she queried, obviously wary, influenced by the stigma against all things non-magical.

"Yes, my dear Minerva. _Muggle_."

She closed her eyes, and opened them again, almost portraying aggrandizement in surprise. In a habit becoming more and more familiar to her, she began to massage her temple.

"No doubt you have done enough research on the subject to make up for the abruptness of this suggestion? What are in these medicines?"

Snape envisioned with some amusement the sheaths of parchment and books entrusted to him by Granger not the day before, and he smirked. He had spent all night reading—something he could do in his ghost's form much more easily than in life without being inordinately cranky or irritable the next day, for he discovered sleep was not necessary to his existence any longer. Indeed, after carefully weighing all the factors he gleaned from the said informational sources, he saw the proposed option as the most favorable by far. Better, at any rate, than letting Weasley live alone in the hospital for the rest of his life.

"I have given it every consideration, Minerva. And, I must say, if it was Granger who convinced me . . ." He broke off there, and let the facts speak for themselves.

" . . . That means two of Hogwarts' greatest minds are in accordance on the subject," McGonagall finished for him, paying no heed to the very slight coloration of the deputy headmasters' translucent cheekbones.

_I still am too susceptible to the praise of others_, Snape chastised himself.

"I suppose, then, that it must be a good idea, if nothing else—it cannot make the boy any worse." The old woman shook her head sadly, a glaze coming to her eyes in the subtle manner of Judi Dench.

"My sentiments as well," Snape nodded crisply. "I do believe nothing more could possibly augment the agon between the boy and his mind."

McGonagall sighed, laying her hand upon her quill again. "Then I endorse your decision, Severus." Sighing a second time, she cast a desultory glare at the papers all over her desk. "Alas, but I have very much to do today, or else I would willingly and keenly accompany you. Why not go inquire of Pomfrey?"

"I shall," Snape responded, rising. Halfway to the door, he turned and reminded her: "But do not let yourself overwork today, no matter how much the owls hound you. Promise that."

She smiled sadly, and nodded in agreement. "I do."

He left her rubbing her forehead, her image reminiscent of The Thinker, except for the peculiar haziness that stress and physical discomfort taxed upon her.

. . x . . X . . x . .

Poppy was quite busy when Snape arrived in the midst of the infirmary. Several students were disabled with a bout of the flu, and their retching resounded throughout the very live acoustic structure of the hospital wing.

Unexpectedly, Madame Pince sat close at hand, measuring liquids to be dispensed down the throats of calmer patients. Hers was the exactitude of a woman whose primary aim in life consisted of preciseness rather than accuracy. Not being able to get Pomfrey's attention at the moment, Snape glided behind the seated libarian and waved his hand across her high-collared neck, just enough to send an icy draft of wind down her dress.

"Oh!"

The librarian dropped the fortunately empty spoon and spun about to face him. This was simple and literal; she was in Pomfrey's Muggle-style spinning chair.

"You're in here rather often, Pince," Snape commented acerbically. "Virtually every time I enter those doors, you are somewhere about."

"Uncanny, is it not?" the woman sniffed with disdain. "Well, as it happens, I lately have taken an interest in the science of healing—it probably will be the basis of my next treatise. Or, perhaps, just background information for my upcoming novel."

Snape scowled and faced away from her coldly without another word. That is, until he noticed that her measuring was just _absolutely_ _unprofessional, _to say the least . . .

Pomfrey came to pick out a new glass of the stuff Pince had mixed together, and was struck by the sight of the ghostly potions master condemning the librarian's methods of measurement. Ostensibly, he was talking under his breath to himself, but he was purposefully loud enough to annoy the librarian, who pretended not to notice—but she clamped her teeth in a strange agitation.

"Well, hullo Severus!" Poppy Pomfrey exclaimed loudly, drawing the ghostly potions master somehow away from the site of her lover's perplexity. "What have you come about for? Need anything in particular I can get you? As you can see, we're a bit busy in here at present . . ."

Once they were beyond Pince's earshot, however, she whispered almost venomously, "Please don't irk Irma like that. I don't like it, and I can fairly say she does not, either. Especially from you . . ."

Snape opened his mouth to ask why 'especially' himself, but she caught his thought before he voiced it.

" . . . You're just about the only person in this castle who can beat her at verbal jousting, and she's depressed and glum all the rest of the day after. Knocks the spirit out of her for a good long while."

At this point, they entered her office, and she closed the door. Her last line was very tempting, and Snape's mind nagged him: _Perhaps I can reaffirm my suspicions . . . _

He yielded to his curiosity.

"And the night, too, I'm sure." Snape met the woman's embarrassed blush and half laugh with a sly grin.

"I . . . I don't know what you mean, Severus."

_She's lying. Look at her smile. _

He feigned surprise. "Oh! I must apologize. I thought you two were in some sort of quasi-sexual relationship, if not more than that."

"Ahem." Poppy seemed a bit confused over 'quasi-sexual', but she rushed over it. "Well, I must say . . . well . . . we're more to each other than you might think."

The incredulous stare from the ghost brought a diminished sigh to the suddenly breathless nurse's lips. "All right. I admit it. We're queer. Is it so un-understandable? So many women locked up in a castle, so few desirable men about . . . a few of us are bound to turn one way or the other eventually."

Snape was unsure of the nature of the two 'ways' of Pomfrey's thinking, and wondered if he had followed one of them. _Definitely not the one that these librarian and nurse have followed_, he decided.

"Is it too strange? Bugger. I suppose it is. I'm afraid to a man it must be."

Pomfrey's eyes fell to the floor, and she looked as though she wanted to strangle her vocal chords.

_Now she is mortified. Poor woman. I don't believe I think anything less of her for it, though. It's not Christian, but . . . I see how some people might feel they have no other choice. It's not as bad as molesting students, after all. Perhaps not even as bad as unabatedly loving a woman who never paid one any romantic attention. _

He needed to say something. The poor woman had just confirmed his suspicions, but he sensed that she was tearing up over it now. Probably she had some contract with the librarian not to talk. Summoning the strength not to double over laughing—partially at the self-satisfaction of having been proved right, partially at the imagined scene of the two very different women in bed together—he assured her:

"Poppy, I respect your orientation, and, aside from finding this almost absurdly amusing, I think no less of you or your capabilities. And I shan't go spreading it around, so rest your mind on that point."

A small smile escaped her, replying to his devious smirk, and she nodded in gratitude. "Thanks, Severus. I sometimes just talk too much."

"No matter." He looked about him at the contents of Pomfrey's office.

Everything in there was so familiar as to be almost unnoticeable. The room was a small space, secluded from the infirmary by way of a typical heavy oak door not uncommonly found throughout Hogwarts, then merely a long transparent pane of glass. This window was instituted for the practical purpose of keeping an eye out on the patients, although with Pomfrey's habit of obliviousness it served of almost no use. A faded taupe carpet covered the stone floor, slightly askew probably from an encounter with the plump nurse's wooden clogs. Off in the back corner, scarcely noticeable, was a door leading into what Snape supposed was Pomfrey's bedroom. Ugly ivory curtains of twill fringed with lace adorned a frosted window looking out onto the dismal clouds. Several chairs were in the chamber, all of mismatched color and styles, but the effect was cozy and homelike; a bit ditzy, yet comforting. The entire place was jammed with knickknacks and bookcases all about, and, although untidy, it was still sterile in the proper hospital fashion. It fit the woman very well.

Settling into the only convenient chair, Snape broached the topic of his visit. "So, today, my dear Poppy, I came here to ask you a favor. However, I cannot even think of drawing you away from your ill patients while they are of such a quantity. The favor is insignificant, comparably."

She looked put-out, if he could believe it. "Ah, I see. Is there nothing I could do, though? At least tell me about it."

Snape needed no insistence. "Simply, I need your opinion as a healer, if you have time to give it."

"Oh, well, I'm listening. Go on. The children won't suffer any more for my taking a quick break."

"This has to do with the progress—or lack thereof—in Mr. Weasley's case," Snape began. "Simply, Miss Granger suggested that we, as authorities of the boy, insist upon various methods of Muggle treatment that are proven to work."

The little woman twitched, but remained serious in attention.

"Miss Granger did a fundamental amount of research and provided it to me," the ghost continued, accioing the papers from his office as he spoke. An untidy bundle flew into his hand, and he straightened the ream for Pomfrey before placing the papers before her.

"From what I have read, it is a good idea on her part. I intend to go to the Psychic at St. Mungo's and give him a briefing on this subject, hopefully to convince him of the benefits of this treatment method."

Madame Pomfrey leafed through the very thorough notes of Miss Granger, noting occasionally a particular phrase underlined in Snape's favorite pen color or a brief comment made in Snape's tight handwriting in the margins.

She was only scanning the work, of course, but she did not seem dissatisfied with anything she saw, which set Snape's mind at ease. That is, at ease until she frowned halfway through the pages.

"Have you taken into consideration the will of Arthur and Molly in the care of their son?" Pomfrey questioned.

He had been expecting something more hazardous than this. Snape almost had to laugh.

"Truthfully, I cannot imagine Arthur refusing any opportunity for Muggle Study."

Pomfrey responded with a recalcitrant smile. "I agree. But Molly's more headstrong, and more apt to refuse."

Snape considered this. "I believe Arthur has more of a backbone than most of us would suspect," he decided cautiously. "When the man lays aside all banter, he attains a dreadfully earnest seriousness that must be quite difficult to counter. Besides, Molly is the kind who will listen to reason. Her main concern is obviously for her children."

"Hm. You're right on that point," replied Pomfrey contemplatively. "He makes a good father," she added, a sad note in her voice. She suddenly looked at Snape, almost defensively. "I did used to be properly married to a man," she insisted, her mind evidentially still dwelling on their earlier topic of her current relationship with the librarian. "Henry died before we could have any children. I do miss him terribly, even with Pince."

In a terrible coincidence, as Pomfrey spoke, Snape saw the librarian's figure pass the window, headed boldly for the door of the office.

Pomfrey's look of discomfiture elicited a raised finger on the potions master's part, his assurance that he would not let Pince know of his discovery.

There was almost no need. Pince stalked into the room, a tray of tea things on her arm, which she deposited in an exasperated manner upon Pomfrey's desk. She took no notice of Snape, or genuinely did not see him—he could not tell.

He changed his opinion almost instantly.

"Oh, Merlin, Poppy, if you only knew how pathetic I am . . ."

In the manner of a Victorian gentleman, the librarian grasped her lover's hand and kissed it passionately, desperately, as though for the last time. Snape was shocked at the wounded tone of her voice—it was so unlike how he ever had seen the woman before; it was even more unsettling than confronting teary female Snakes about their boy problems.

Meanwhile, though Pomfrey was turning very red, and though Snape made no effort to disappear, Pince continued her lament.

"I demand that you tell me so, _mon cherie. _It's just too terrible. I was simply minding my own business when-"

"-Erm, my dear . . . Snape . . ."

Interrupted abruptly, Pince hastily retracted a step. A mixture of anger, mortification, unease and startlement crossed her face as her eyes focused on the pearly ghost in the chair. Despite himself, Snape felt somewhat intimidated by the torrent of emotions, among which he was sure some resentment for him resided.

The librarian's sudden laughter startled him almost as much as his presence originally scared her.

Pomfrey, just as amazed at the reaction of her fellow female, reached to take the thin, fluid fingers of her partner in her own thick hand.

"My dear, I'm sorry," the nurse apologized profusely, but there was no need. Irma clearly found the situation too absurd to cry about, at least at the present.

"Don't bother with all that; it's my fault for barging in here like a moron!" Pince exclaimed, seating herself on the corner of the desk a bit closer than most would deem appropriate. "It's perfectly all right, though; I'm rather sick of keeping us so dark, anyhow. Knowing Snape, though, he probably wouldn't mention this for fear that he be thought disloyal to his memories of Lily _Potter _just by watching us."

To further enhance the barb of using Lily's married name, Pince suddenly caught up Pomfrey in her wiry arms for a very deep kiss.

_If she left it at that, it would be nothing short of rude._ _But to top off with that, of all things, is downright disgusting._

Snape glared at them for the eternity that they were entangled, until finally Pomfrey decided enough was enough and pushed away her lover.

_She enjoyed that, but I shan't begrudge it of her. They do say whomever 'ends it' is the most responsible and practical, both in fights and love. _

Sulkily, Pince turned around so that she could face Snape. A defiant, proud air reflected in her visage, and Snape did his best to ignore it.

"Back to the Weasley matter," Pomfrey insisted, shuffling the papers from Snape faux-industriously, "My only concern is that Arthur and Molly get full understanding of the potential dangers of the treatment you are proposing."

"He can't get any worse," Snape replied coolly, watching the librarian covertly.

She had dug an apple out from an invisible pocket of the imitation-Victorian dress, which, for the record, flattered her lean figure very well. For a moment, she polished it with the cuff of her sleeve, then, with the deliberateness and relish of Huck Finn, she bit into the green-red fruit.

The consequential noise brought Pomfrey's eyes to notice Pince's impertinence also.

"Irma, my dear, you really shouldn't swipe the children's lunches."

Casually, the librarian chomped again, staring pensively at an undeserving bust of Ignatius de Loyola.

"It's not as though the boy could even face his chicken broth—much less anything healthier," she snapped with surprising dignity, and continued with renewed gusto the pursuit of disappearing the fruit. Her strangely appalling manner was a sharp contrast to her austere primness of carriage and dress. For some reason, Snape wondered if her actions were intentional.

"Well, I myself am interested in Muggle cures, Severus," Pomfrey went on, deciding to ignore Pince for the time. "I have little knowledge of them personally, but I am curious as to their procedures. They say Muggles are really a good deal more clever than we give them credit for."

"But they are, absolutely," Snape confirmed, his mind reverting to the atom bomb. That was his usual mental image of Muggle industry, the first picture which flew to his mind. The distaste he held for Muggle things was somehow evident, apparently, and Pomfrey perceived it.

"You do not trust their type of learning, though?"

Snape coughed. "Well, not all of their speculations are completely whole, I believe," Snape ventured. "Such as one idea they proposed—that we are evolved from apes."

The idea tickled Pomfrey so much that she began laughing grossly, turning quite as pink as her plush chair very quickly.

Pince, however, merely let her apple slip from her fingers to make a racket. Her face was stony, lacking mirth, almost as dire as if she had watched a shooting rather than paid witness to an absurd comment.

"Isn't it the most amusing thing you ever heard?" cried Pomfrey in laughter. "Nonsense! Complete and utter nonsense!"

The librarian's sullenness was unnerving, and Snape felt uncomfortable, as though he unwittingly insulted her.

Pomfrey soon quieted when she realized no one else had joined her, and she too turned to gaze at the woman who monopolized the dramatics in the room.

Halfheartedly, Pince gave a cold laugh. "Oh. Of course. Darwin was quite the comedian, I readily agree."

From her eyes, though, Snape inferred easily that she spoke the opposite of her own view. Plainly, her contemptuous gaze read something to the accord of 'You #$& IDIOTS!'

Snape could only come to one conclusion after this.

_I do believe, she's an atheist! _

Before he could affirm this, however, the woman rose, picked her now-dirty fruit from the floor, and thumped out as loudly as she had entered.

"What on earth?"

Snape immediately rounded upon Poppy for an explanation. The poor woman just shook her head in frustration.

"I myself have no idea. She really reacts too quickly for me to understand what's in her head, very often." She sighed.

_I should try using legilimancy on the librarian, see if perhaps I can interpret her better than her own lover. _

"So, Severus, when do you intend to discuss this matter with the Psychic?"

"I was intending to go today," Snape responded, "But I was hoping you would attend with me. I can make inquiries elsewhere, though; it will delay me but very little."

"Nonsense," Pomfrey replied smoothly. "Pince will accompany you."

Snape saw the futility of this notion and gave a brisk nod. "Right," he replied sarcastically, his eyes rolling to address the ceiling. "Remind me when she does not loathe me with a vengeful passion."

"No indeed. I'm perfectly serious. She owes me a favor. Give her a minute or two to cool, and she'll be as right as rain."

Incredulously, he had to ask. "And if she refuses?" (He hoped she would!)

"I will insist."

Oh, Pomfrey's notorious _insistence. _The unbeatable, iron will that kept the ill in their beds and the neglectful from 'forgetting' their medicines.

Submitting himself, he followed the diminutive woman out of her office to confront the librarian again.

Pince was sitting outside, composure impeccable as she continued to dole different potions from bottles. A vast array of shotglass-sized containers, filled with a brown-green substance, littered her worktable.

"Irma, my dear," Pomfrey whisked herself to her lover's side, "I need to talk to you a moment. Pardon us, Severus."

Snape backed away respectfully and tried to not look at the women, instead focusing his attention to the irregular stone floor and the sick students. The hum of Poppy's quietly confident voice carried only loud enough for the women to distinguish, and occasionally a rare raspy whispered word from Pince broke the almost melodious continuum.

Finally, the women concluded their conversation with schoolgirl-ish giggling, and Pince smirkingly rose and advanced to Severus' place in the corner.

"Come now, Snape," she declared almost salaciously, "Do you really need a woman to protect you from the evils of Psychic Drosselmeyer? I'm almost certain he does not have a niece named Clara, if that makes him any less frightening."

Though his courage was assaulted, which was abominable, Snape did not reply. He was not interested in Pince's company, irksome as it was, and he preferred to have someone with less animosity to be the one to assist him in solidifying, but if Pomfrey was going to saddle him to her . . .

Pince was thoroughly unpleasant company, he decided—impertinent, egotistical, and downright disturbing. However, as well read as she was, she probably understood a lot more about Ron's affliction than he did, especially if her claim to her publishing of a treatise on mental diseases was valid. He wondered if this would be an advantage or disadvantage to him, ultimately.

They left the infirmary without another word, Pince chattering glibly about one thing or another, and Snape only half listening.

" . . . But there was the possibility, of course," the woman ranted, almost as rapid and unintelligible in her speech as Sandy from _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_. "that the student was not the one who had three books overdue, for although I am very bad with names I am excellent with recalling the faces of those delinquents who refuse to adhere to library policy . . ."

Snape shook his head, finding no reply necessary to the incessant verbal diarrhea churning from her mouth.

Finally, they reached the staff lounge, and Snape snatched a handful of floo powder from the Persian slipper on the hearth.

Pince stepped beside him, arms crossed over her chest protectively.

"I was unaware of the fact that ghosts could travel by floo—Kensington Smith wrote that it was definitely impossible in1939."

_Oh, now she chooses to be difficult. Blasted woman! _

"I myself was unaware that a librarian could speak above a whisper," replied Severus dryly. "It would seem that one's vocal chords would become so accustomed to speaking softly that it would become a fact of daily habit."

He knew full well how often her shrieks resounded throughout the library, and expected that she would have trouble replying to this one.

Pince spurned a glare, but made no motion to indicate she was going to help him. Well, perhaps she really was unaware about his ability to transform. The gossip had gotten about, so he imagined much of the school knew about it, but, then, she spent so much time within her books that she probably never heard.

"Oh, never mind, go off to your books, Pince, and I'll get Temperance or someone. You clearly are not interested in the well-being of Mr. Weasley."

He was surprised by her hand, as of its own volition, whipping forward to grasp his phantasmal arm tightly.

"I have especial reason for wanting the best for Mr. Weasley," Pince seethed, a scowl across her face. Snape felt, along with the wink of surprise of her touch, astonished at the fact that almost as soon as her hand grasped him, he was solid in an instant. Literally, in an instant, he changed from ghost to man.

She merely raised an eyebrow at him, almost laughingly. No surprise on her part.

_Why did it happen so fast this time? _

It was interesting, the feeling of her fingers, even through the cloth of his sleeve. His impression was that Pince emitted such a surging vitality and power, almost like static electricity, that he was almost overwhelmed. In contrast to Luna's touch, the life-giving properties of the librarian's body were like gamma rays compared to alpha rays, the alpha representing the rest of the world, and gamma representing Irma's ferocity and density.

Her fingernails were digging into his arm, and he became acutely aware of the pain.

_One would imagine the process of crossing the border between life and death would hurt, but that, I would almost say, was pleasant. _

"What reason would you have for wanting Mr. Weasley's welfare?" queried the potions master suddenly, just to ameliorate Pince's somewhat angry clawing. _Damn, that woman needs to trim her nails. _

"First, he has seven books long due, ones which have been due for years, as I was telling you earlier." Her annoyance was very evident. "Second, I do not want to be mistaken again for his Hermione Granger . . . the personal danger is not thrilling."

Snape laughed at this. _I'll probably never find that scene anything more than morbidly hilarious. But why is this woman's touch so different from everyone else's? Is it her personality? The fact that she's homosexual? In that case, I ought to try experimenting with Pomfrey and judge the results . . . _

"Well, my dear Snape, I understand you must arm your mental fortresses against the evil Drosselmeyer, but haven't you had enough time by now?"

_Manipulative bitch. _

"Perhaps you might direct me to a book, Madame Librarian, that would instruct me on _how to ensure your filthy mouth stays shut?_"

Without a word, she yanked his arm, and he barely had enough time to throw the powder before she screamed "St. Mungo's Hospital!"

They were immediately ensconced with green flames.

. . x . . X . . x . .

* * *

I sincerely hope you enjoyed. By the way, THE VIEWS AND OPINIONS OF THE CHARACTERS DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OR OPINIONS OF THE AUTHOR until the end. Somewhat. I have nothing against lesbians/gays--Snape doesn't either, he just thinks they're moderately amusing, which will become ironic later. My handy escape clause is: I've got friends who aren't straight, and I'm absolutely fine with their orientations. Um, yeah. 

PLEASE REVIEW. Make my life better. Do I have to give you damn kitten eyes? 0-0 (okay, that looks more like a bat than a kitten . . . anyways . . .)

Please.

Please. Review. I think many of my readers have fallen off the wagon, and it makes me sad.

If it's any encouragement, I sometimes give hints about things coming up if you query in a review. AKA, if you have a specific question, I'll be happy to blab the answer if it's not really important, or just give a hint if it is important.

Maybe this will get your attention.

TITLE CONTEST!!!!!

Make up a better title for this fiction . . . I keep tweaking it, but I want to completely make it different and better . . . and you will get my eternal gratitude and commendation. And that of my readers, because if you don't mind being un-anonymous, you'll have your username posted on one of these ridiculously long A/Ns.

Talk to y'all soon! (When you review!!)


	28. Bookworm Problems

_Sorry it's been so long, but you don't really want to know the WHOLE story of why it's been so long. The story of why it's been so long is too long to put here. But this is a very long chapter to make up for my absence! I'll try to be more regular . . . hopefully . . . hope you all haven't fallen off by now!_

_Long reviews are highly appreciated. Actually, any reviews are appreciated. So please, while you're thinking about it, scroll down really fast to the bottom of the page, click on the purple button, then scroll back up and start reading. This will ensure that YOU DO NOT FORGET TO REVIEW. Okie dokie? Great. Let's go. Very fun chapter with a sweet surprise at the end._

* * *

**Chapter 28**

"Allow me to declare, my dear Pince, that you are utterly the most precocious, despicable, infuriating, indivertible, vexing, bloody-minded, and vainglorious woman in Hogwarts castle!"

"And allow me to reply, my dear Snape, that you are the most avaricious, secretive, obstinate, banal, hirsute, hopelessly quixotic, and myopic ghost in Hogwarts as well!"

They were rushing through the green flames with such a fury that Snape almost felt sick. Despite their argument, the librarian still grasped his arm frenziedly, and the pain from this, though nothing like a dreaded crucio, was nevertheless irritating. 

Usually, convention prevented speech from occurring while physically traveling by floo, but, then, Pince did not seem the sort to mind a breach of tradition.

"Impregnable, inefficient, ice-breathed possessor of goats' eyes!" 

"Revolting, redundant, rudimentary emissary of rodent colonies!"

"Disengaging, anti-lucrative, inferior, stannic leaf-paste!"

"Seigneurial, cretinous, nose-picking, oscillating facilitator of natural oils!"

At this point, they landed in an untidy heap in the St. Mungo's entry hall, Snape still quite solid and Pince quite flushed with revelry. Not willing to discontinue the battle even as they disentangled, the potions master continued: 

"Volatile, maudlin, pragmatic _female._" 

Oh, yes, that last word sparked a fire in her eyes as there had not been before then. _How could a woman like her not be a feminist?_

"At least, in my gender, human fatuity is not as prevalent or obvious as in males!"

"But that does no good for your sort at all—the 'gentle' sex has made virtually no improvements to mankind or human achievement since Mary Wollstonecraft!"

"Well, what do you call Marie Curie, Eleanor Roosevelt, Florence Nightingale, Sally Ride, or J.K. Rowling?"

She said this last name with a gentle lilt, as though it were of particular importance that she suspected he would overlook, and her eyes were mocking.

Snape shook his head. "I've never heard of any of those women, and I'm quite sure most well-read wizards would not have, either."

She smirked. "Of course not. There really are too few women in wizarding history that made any lasting contribution—indeed, all of those examples are of Muggle women."

_Damn this woman. Showing off, that's all._

"I'm sure you are quite satisfied with the 'O' you attained on your Muggle Studies N.E.W.T., Pince, and while I'm certain the pleasure you derive from reminding us all of the fact relates to your deep and dark desires to abandon the wizarding world, it nevertheless leads one to assume that your 'O' in Muggle Studies must have been your _only _'O' in any class. I see no reason to otherwise harp upon the subject so."

As she seethed, Snape realized: _Blast. People are staring at us._

"Stop bickering, you old married couple," some cheeky teenage rogue from amidst the crowd of other patient-attendees declared. 

Pince gave a flashing but forced smile of false amusement, then nobly swept away to the front desk.

He glared after her, then remembered his reason for being there in the first place—Weasley. Shuffling, he made his way to the first door on the right from the floo, and entered it. 

To his intense annoyance, Pince appeared right next to him; she had apparated into the narrow doorway from halfway across the room. More correctly, she landed in the exact spot he was striding through in such a manner that her form was completely enveloped by his vapors for half a second. Although he was not solid, the sensation was disconcerting. _Damn woman shows no respect for my state, abusing my lack of solidity as a means of effecting her own convenience. _

"Merlin, you just _try_ to make my life difficult!" he muttered aloud, not sure whether he wanted Pince to hear. She was ahead of him by then, though, so he could not gage her reaction. Her lean, tall form briskly strode, and she seemed without a hint of the notion that she had irked him at all. Her old-fashioned boots emitted a satisfying clunking at every step—the impression she made was of a sole giraffe on a private cavalcade through Trafalgar Square. This idea amused Snape immensely, even as he internally fumed still.

It startled him to remember that the foyer they were walking into was the same that had been over-infested by red-haired mongrels of the Weasley brand upon his last visit. There were more doors than he would have recalled, and he noticed one titled Weasley, Ron . Nothing could be clearer. 

He approached the door Then, suddenly, a heavy knock made him spin about—Pince was making her obnoxious presence known upon a different door. She knocked again, louder, and received no answer. The reverberations of her actions sounded strange in the relative silence of the foyer. Apparently, the woman did not have eyes in the back of her head, for the glare he gave her would have made any other sensible person stop cold. Instead, she simply knocked again, paying no heed to the frustrated ghost. 

Snape fluttered behind the librarian and looked over her shoulder at the nameplate. J. Drosselmeyer, Psychic of Mental Maladies. 

Well, she was intelligent, but not perceptive. No answer came from the office of the psychic, and Snape smirked at her failed attempt. He turned on his phantasmal heel and went back to Ronald's door. 

Snape stared at the drab brass nameplate for a moment, unwilling to admit his slight intimidation. Then, as he sensed Pince coming up behind him, he made a heavy knock upon the door. The loudness of it sounded strange in the silence of the foyer. 

Again, no answer. He knocked again, but not so boldly as before. Impetuous as ever, Pince stepped through him—a most uncomfortable sensation for him—and doubled the strength of his knocks. 

No answer resulted from her tantrum, and, impatient, her hand swerved to grasp the handle.

"What are you doing?" demanded Snape hoarsely, surprised she would be this unconventional, but the librarian simply shrugged. 

"Opening a door, you dolt." Thus saying, she pushed the door open with a fit of dramatics to reveal a man in a waxed black robe and bird-shaped mask. 

With the proper dramatic positioning, Psychic Drosselmeyer stood halfway to the door, one hand posed to grasp the handle, frozen in time momentarily as he blinked with surprise at the door and the jamb's occupants. He wore a similar costume to that he wore previously; the standard black-waxed coat, the oilcloth hat which he twisted in his hands, the birdlike mask that contained camphor and lavender were all staples to his wardrobe as a physic. The glass eyes were taken from the mask today, however, and Snape spotted them in a dish on a side table. The man's real eyes were stunning; bright and actually quite beautiful, keen with fervor but slightly disgruntled by frustration.

"Good Merlin!" Drosselmeyer hissed, "Can't you leave a body be? This patient's not fit for visitors today."

Snape snorted, saying: "Not as though he ever was."

Pince spoke at the same time: "We aren't here to call upon the boy."

The psychic looked from one to the other of the pair, then glanced back over his shoulder at the boy. Weasley lay in bed, covers pulled up to his chin. A legilimens-administration board was positioned at the bedside; it was a desk-like structure created for legilimens-administrator (in this case Psychic Drosselmeyer) so that he/she could lean over the patient and access their thoughts without physically having to lean over or touch the patient. The boy appeared rather peaceful, to all appearances as relaxed as he would be in sleep, only his eyes were open. He could have been daydreaming, but Snape knew the boy was stunned. 

"I remember you," the psychic said throatily, examining Snape pointedly with evident distaste. "But what are you doing, coming in like that? He might have been awake! You care nothing for the recovery of the ill boy?"

He rounded upon the melodramatic woman who, at the moment, stalked in without a care in the world, completely baffling and annoying the psychic. Drosselmeyer then looked back at Snape. His gaze was threatening, and Snape decided that it was not the time to go about laying blame at Pince's door—they would both end up paying anyways. Better to pacify the irate doctor, who appeared as aghast as a modernist art collector might react to the Ghostbusters barging into his private gallery. 

"No indeed, Psychic Drosselmeyer; I apologize for our unnecessary intrusion," Snape responded with his most gentle effect, though it seemed to make no headway with the man before them. "We are actually here out of concern for the patient."

"Oh!" This concerned, strangled appeal came from Pince; she was more shocked than any woman with a published treatise on mental disease ought to look at a person thus afflicted. She stepped slightly away from the bed, sadly and (almost!) fondly admiring the sleeping Ron. Well, not quite fondly; almost with pity, but with a cool, aloof sort of pity, the way a rich nobleman might observe the beating of a slave. Like Lucius Malfoy would dismiss an innocent mud-blood's rape by a fellow death-eater. It was a strange consternation that Snape could not explain, neither why she expressed it nor why she would feel that way towards the boy.

"I assume he is not awake at this time?" she asked more softly than Snape had ever heard her speak before aloud. 

Her relative gentleness set the psychic more at ease. "No, I have put him under a stunning spell for the time being—he has been much disturbed by me today, and must be under the deepest scrutiny at all hours. I was attempting to untangle the conflicting strings of his mind, but it is a long and difficult process." So saying, the psychic removed his mask completely, for the first time since Snape first met him, along with the hat, and he placed them on the side table near the dish with his glass eyes. 

"Poor boy," Pince said almost sympathetically, then addressed the psychic with a supercilious sniff. "I myself am Madame Irma Noxphilia Pince, daughter of Hederna Pince, whose mother was Merlona Haie-Pince, whose father was Diometer Haie, and I am thus descended from the illustrious Dutch family of Haie who legally immigrated into England in A.D. 1655."

Drosselmeyer, now unmasked, coughed with a discreet air of disbelief, and his eyes caught Snapes'. The ghost was struck by the man's handsomely ruddy face, and they looked at each other with laughter in their eyes, suddenly bonded in mild amusement of the strange woman who knew her family history by rote. 

The man spoke with carefully pronounced English, and Snape realized that the man was probably not native to England. _But there will be time to ask about that later, I'm sure. _

"I can quite comprehend it," Snape replied, wondering why even as he said it how he was becoming suddenly so . . . amicable. _He's a fellow man against this hellish fiend of a lesbian librarian, I suppose. Our sex must hold together when provoked by the feminists of this miserable world; it's our only stand against them. _

The psychic was undisguisedly foreign-looking, with mocha eyes, straggly dull hair of an undecided dark hue, and a thin moustache that threatened to tickle his nose when he talked. The psychic appeared very tired and worn; plum stains colored the skin around his eyes, and his sharp, turned-up nose was very red. A sweaty kerchief in his sleeve found its way to dab his face, and his waxed robe was rumpled from self-neglect. He was, Snape realized, taking Ron's case very seriously.

Still, it did not change the fact that Drosselmeyer's occulmency skills were far from advanced. 

Pince, at this time, had been quiet for almost half a minute, and found it necessary to bring attention to herself once again by chomping on an apple brought from her pocket. Drosselmeyer looked inquiringly at Snape, who shook his head as a signal to ignore the woman. 

"In particular, psychic, is there any marked improvement in the case of Mr. Weasley lately?"

"Let us sit for this discussion. I would take us to my office, but I always fear leaving my patients, even when under sedation." The psychic wearily accioed two chairs from the foyer, and he himself seated himself in the legilimens-administration board's chairpiece. 

"Now, as to Mr. Weasley," Pince said after a swallow of her apple, seating herself and primly crossing her legs. "He has been under your maintenance for over a month."

Snape threw her a look _requesting _her to shut up, since this conversation was not really meant for her to participate in as an equal, but she paid no attention to his nonverbal commands, as usual. 

Evidentially expecting but dreading the question, Drosselmeyer closed his eyes. "It has been more of a struggle than anything else you may believe, Madame Pince. His progress has been slow and tedious. The vile thoughts in his mind temporarily were allayed over the course of one round of my treatment, but for every two steps forward, he seems to take one and three-quarters steps back. At least, that is the phrase you use in England, I believe. The access I have had into his mind is limited at best, and every day I must take a machete and hack my way through his brain."

Pince looked moderately horrified at the shock value of this statement. 

"I speak metaphorically, of course," the psychic assuaged hurriedly, "For it feels that difficult. I must work my way through the tangles of his mind to work on the nucleus."

"When he is stunned, though, his condition is significantly ameliorated?"

"Rather." 

Snape suggested, "So why don't you leave him stunned for the duration of his convalescence until this 'nucleus' you mention is destroyed?"

"There are laws concerned with how long stunning spells can be put upon patients, Snape," Pince screeched, throwing her apple's core up into the air. It tumbled perilously through space, then landed neatly beside the wastebasket. "Oh, damn," the woman declared, then levitated it in a bored manner with her wand, to properly land it in the trash. "But I would have thought you knew _that_, at least," she continued, resuming her seat as regally as a queen might do. Snape wondered why she even bothered to get up; it was only a few feet away from her black boot, but decided it was probably of no consequence. 

"There, that is one problem," admitted Drosselmeyer, "And there is also the fact that when my disentangling of the nucleus occurs, it causes harm to the psyche. And I do not want to delete the nucleus altogether, just eliminate the harmful threads that strangle it. I must be extremely careful with his nucleus, for without it, his soul is virtually destroyed, and he will be no better than a man kissed by a dementor."

Snape frowned, remembering not for the first time that he probably would have been allotted that dismal fate if he had not died at the hands of the Dark Lord the previous summer. It was something he would not have been able to avoid, probably, except if he suddenly disappeared from the English wizarding world. This had been his unfortunate speculation of late, and he had privately changed his opinion on his 'passive suicide'. He was much better off with his soul floating around and his strange manner of consciousness with it, rather than have himself living in prison without a soul. 

However, Drosselmeyer was still going on about Ron's 'nucleus'. 

"It needs to heal in between sessions. Unlike the rest of the metaphorical strings, it does not keep growing during the patient's consciousness. Instead, as I disentangle one strand—oh, say the nucleus is a large ball of worsted. Imagine the sporadic ideas he has as being random extraneous parasitic threads that attatch themselves upon the core strands of yarn, sprouting off the original strands in so many different directions, tangling among one another and slowly strangling the original nucleus ball of yarn. That is it, simply. I must be careful to only cut the strands of the parasitic yarn, not the strands of the original. It is a tedious process, but, in the event that I accidentally nick a bit out of the original ball of yarn—it grows back, but only once the patient is again completely conscious. Does all this make sense to you, sir?" 

"Absolutely," Snape nodded affirmatively. "That's an excellent way of putting it."

"I thank you," the psychic replied, settling back into his chair even further. "But you mentioned, perhaps, some suggestion for change in strategy?"

"Rather!" Pince declared stubbornly. "Psychic Drosselmeyer," she exclaimed, standing again, "We at Hogwarts are of the supposition that the treatment of Weasley with Muggle medications would prove more effective than current wizarding methods."

_Oh, the ever-present dramatic! She just _has_ to shock him!_

The psychic, as per Snape's perception, was unbeatably dumbfounded. 

"I declare, upon what basis do you believe this would be an improvement?" Drosselmeyer frowned, casting a wondering glance at Snape, who simply nodded in accord. "Muggles are . . . well, I hate to say it, but they are simply stupid." 

_Ah, the bias . . . but he speaks for almost all wizardkind. _In Snape's mind appeared, again, an image of a mushroom cloud looming, cold and intimidating against a blue-gray sky. He closed his eyes to rid his mind's eye of the sight; it was all too horrifying. The unfortunate thing was, he knew it had happened. _Okinawa? Morioka? Someplace in Japan. _

His elementary school teacher—from the days before his father would accept that he was truly one of Eileen's sort, and sent Severus to Muggle school--had been a neutralized immigrant from back there. Understandably, the short little man had educated them very thoroughly on the horrors of WWII, laying stress on the fact that the _Americans _had done such a thing to his people, the Japanese. Snape felt a certain disliking for Americans unto this day . . . such a rowdy, noisy, uncouth lot! But not purely for their atom bomb. That was just . . . he could not understand why they would even try to make something that destructive. It really scared him. 

"I must disagree." His thoughts were voiced through the very unexpected medium of Pince. "In many ways, we do underestimate them, but we have done thorough research on the subject of their mental disorder treatment methods."

Snape glared at her. "And the findings have been most conclusive," he added, and presented the same packet of papers that he had given Pomfrey earlier. 

Pince, discontent with merely sitting still, forfeited also a number of papers. "My treatise," she smugly stated "In addition to my sources."

"What . . . what do all these numbers and letters at the top of the page mean?" Drosselmeyer was overwhelmed, and obviously just grasped upon something tangible to say. He did raise the topmost paper up to the light, where Snape could see it . . . and, Snape admitted, he could make neither head nor tail of it, either. It looked something like this:_ h t t p / w w w . a f l e s o m d b . c o . u k / i m a g e s / a d o b e p d f d o c s / 1 8 7 1 4 3 /_

"That's the web address," Pince replied, a bit irritated. "What do you think 'www' means?"

"I don't know." Drosselmeyer, if nothing else, was an honest soul. He shrugged, then began to carefully turn over a few more pages, scanning them quickly. "I . . . I will need to look these through." He appeared uncertain. "Might I take some time, the duration of a week, perhaps?"

"That would be adequate," Snape replied, for once beating Pince to taking the authoritative stance. 

"No, it isn't!" So much for the authoritative stance. Pince set him off balance in three words. She rose with an air of finality. "We will call again in two days. This matter is very pressing, and I hate to delay even that long."

"Pince, be reasonable," barked Snape, losing the unusual amount of patience he had for the woman until this point. "We can't expect him to-"

She interrupted. "-Come along, Snape! It's back to Hogwarts for us!" With a flourish, she stalked to the door, opening it. 

As she stood, ironically holding the door open for the ghost who could float through walls, something suddenly came alight in Drosselmeyer's face. His jaw dropped and his sweaty kerchief again made contact with his furrowed brow. 

"Merlin!" he exclaimed. "Pardon me, but Mr. Snape . . . are you _the _Severus Snape? Of Studies Upon Applicable Properties of Krypton and other Alkali Metals? Who also wrote The Defined Guide To Occulmency for the Purpose of Mental Protection?" 

Almost as surprised as the psychic, though still irritated with the domineering woman who was virtually his ticket home, Snape nodded. "Yes, what of it?"

The man became instantly ecstatic—any hint of dislike for the ghost now dissipated. "Oh, Merlin. Merlin! Sir--ach!--I am so sorry! Last time you came I accused you of working a mess upon my patient's brain, but I am wholeheartedly ashamed now!" The man was clearly distraught; Snape would not have been surprised if he had thrown himself at the phantasmal feet of the ghost. "Oh Merlin! I am an ardent student of your work, Professor! If I had only realized before . . . for some reason I was of the opinion you were Italian, but that's the common misconception we make with all the good work written in the highly excellent language of scholarly Latin . . . excuse me for saying, but you English really do not produce much excellent literature of any nature beyond the romances. You are the only exception, I am certain. But even they usually have a certain brusqueness of style that you do not have . . . I swear to Merlin, you write like an Italian!" 

_No need to yell pen and ink, man, really! _"I thank you for your generosity, but my attempt at a literary career is long past," Snape mused delicately, wholly touched that the man was so ardent a follower of his work, but covering his delight at being so revered with a facade of irascibility. "And, frankly, those works were composed when I was rather young. My published writings could all do with a heavy pen, but I have neither the time nor interest to modify them."

"Oh, but they are the most great nevertheless," responded Drosselmeyer avidly. "And you do yourself far too little amount of credit!" 

"My writings are decaying, and their relevance is virtually nonexistent in this advancing age," Snape obdurately determined, and stood. The psychic, still blushing at the prospect that he was talking to his favorite writer of all time, ignored the professor's modesties. 

"I will read the research papers over the next few days, Professor," Drosselmeyer exclaimed almost with literal ecstasy. 

Snape groaned internally. _Now his vehement ardor for my work is becoming nauseating. I do hope he gets over my celebrity—which really is not celebrity—rather soon, or I'll never be able to work with him in a sane environment. _Snape held an especial contempt for the puppydog fan mentality, and, unfortunately, Psychic Drosselmeyer seemed to be the type to start a Severus Snape fanclub—and, in all likelihood, be the only member. It was a pitiful and revolting thought. 

"I appreciate that," Snape replied, now a bit wary of his seemingly overenthusiastic reader. 

He turned to look at Pince, who appeared quite jealous of the fact that her literary name was unknown to the psychic whereas Snape's was adored. The venom and animosity were so prominent that even the most inept of legilimens might read it. Snape felt a direct sense of satisfaction penetrate his features despite himself. 

"I believe we must depart," the potions master supposed, rather belatedly, since Pince by that moment had turned on her heel and stomped out of the room. 

"No, wait," Drosselmeyer pleaded, "Take a look at Mr. Weasley's mind-if you would, sir! Tell me your opinion of his mind's condition—I interrupted you before when I imagine you were doing so."

"I would," Snape replied, but I believe my method of getting home may be abandoning me as we speak."

So saying, he stalked out at full speed, barely catching Drosselmeyer's faint "Goodbye" as he chased the librarian.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . . 

Well, he did not catch her. He saw the green flames rise in the fireplace and her malevolent grimace radiating through them. In a second, she had disappeared entirely. 

_Oh, confound it. _How deucedly inconvenient. 

Snape looked back at the door to the foyer. Might as well belatedly take up Drosselmeyer's invitation to stay; he was not going anywhere for a good long while. Perhaps Drosselmeyer himself would be so inclined as to afterwards assist him home. In all truthfulness, he _could _simply fly back in his ghost fashion, but it would probably take all night, and Snape had plenty he would opt to do in that time besides that. 

The clock on the mantelshelf chimed, and Snape glanced just in time to see the embers rise once more, bringing virtually to his feet a very frenzied Miss Granger. 

Her hair was a definite wreck, standard in her case, but more than usual. Heavy lines of brown-violet hung under her copper-plated eyes, and the tint of her skin was less than healthy in appearance. The girl seemed about as knickered-out as one could get, her papers spewed all over the floor in front of her. She sighed and closed her eyes in frustration.

"Miss Granger," he greeted her with a compliant near-geniality, just tinged with enough formality to remind them both unnecessarily of their teacher-student relationship. Snape almost had been of the notion that they were compatriots of a sort, both fighting for the welfare of a boy whose only cure was the impossible. 

Surprising even himself, he extended his hand to help her up to her feet. She turned the Nelson eye upon the action—or was simply too preoccupied to realize the rarity of it. 

"Hello, professor," she commented dully, running a weary hand through her knot-ridden hair. "Thanks, I'm so dreadfully clumsy I don't know how I can walk straight these days."

Snape shrugged with presumed indifference. "No matter, Miss Granger." He cast a survey upon the papers that, with her entry, had scattered around the room. An old woman with mousy hair was attempting to pick one of them up with her crutch in a vaguely helpful manner, but otherwise the other few occupants in the room paid no heed. Sighing, Granger accioed them all into a tidy pile in her arms, in a manner which suggested that she was very familiar with the action. 

"I assume you're here on Ron's account?" she asked, settling down into one of the waiting room chairs. 

"Indeed. I conveyed to him the idea of your proposition; I just finished talking with him about it."

Hermione nodded curtly. "Excellent. I came to persuade him myself, actually, in case there was a need to do so. I'm sure you just saved me heaps of trouble."

The idea of the determined teenager attempting to convince the stubborn middle-aged Continental amused Snape, to the point that a sly grin appeared on his face. Granger interpreted this accurately as he would suppose of her. 

"Oh. Doubtless you believe I would not be able to do so." 

He had not expected her to perceive the comedy he saw, but responded, "No, Miss Granger. I do believe that ultimately you would be successful in your endeavors, but being of an older age would certainly be an advantage I the situation."

"You mean, he wouldn't take me seriously anyways because I'm still just a student?" 

"That is my opinion."

"God. I hate being young." She scowled, glaring at the floor. Within a moment, she looked up again, a bit blearily. "Is he awake?"

_Her young Mr. Weasley, she means. _

"Not when I left him a moment ago. He's under a stun and likely will not be raised from it for a good while."

"Oh." She paused. "Would it . . ." Then she thought better, and shook her head. "Do you know," she decided matter-of-factly, "I'm going to go and take a nap. I'm desperately tired. Haven't been sleeping quite well at all lately, if ever. I can visit Ron any old time—sleep is more important on weekends."

Snape was almost proud of her for this decision. Her passion for staying up all night had affected her health visibly, and probably long-term as well; she had not gotten an inch taller in the past three or four years, he would say. She would probably remain on the lower side of five feet for the rest of her life. Not necessarily a _bad _thing, per se, but a deuced inconvenient thing if she ever had a tall husband. 

He snorted with a sudden realization. _He _was tall. Her being short would be a deuced inconvenient thing for _him. _

_Ballocks, I don't fancy Granger, and I never will. My subconscious must not play tricks on me like this. _

Her inquiring gaze startled him and he shrugged. 

"What, are you laughing at me now?"

"No, I just remembered something I had forgot." He motioned to the floo. "Are you going back, now?"

"Rather." Standing up, she took a pinch of floo powder from the public transportative substance stand by the fireplace. "Are you coming?"

"Certainly." He paused. "But wait . . . I . . . well . . . I pray you do not take this as an indecency, Miss Granger . . . but I need to touch your arm while we go through."

Aghastment reigned on her face a moment, but it withdrew as she recalled: "Oh, your property of solidization. I see. Of course, here."

She proffered her arm rather more quickly than he expected, and he gratefully took it, stubbornly refusing to look at her skin, hand, or anywhere else. 

Her energy, like Pince's, had him solid in an incredibly short time, and also had a sort of extraordinary sixth-sense flavor to it. However, her energy was more mulled, more subdued, less sharp. The difference was as vast as between mimosa and Granny-Smiths. 

As her energy coursed through him, the girl—he thought--gave a slight giggle, but soon the flames were enveloping them, and he could not quite hear properly.

"Luna mentioned your ability; that's how I knew," Granger explained once they got to the other side. "But she didn't tell me the reason; as far as she knew, she didn't know."

"She was merely being tactful," Snape replied, glad that Luna, even while wrapped around Neville, at least respected his trust, "Since there is a most definite reason for my absurdity. However, it is not a subject I like to discourse."

"Well, that doesn't mean I did not care to research it myself," Hermione declared, smiling a little. Snape hurriedly let go of her arm. "It's all right. There's really no reason to be embarrassed. Unless you think people will think you're a queer in self-denial or something. But really; my father never consummated with my mother until their wedding night, and he was 45." All sign of mirth evaporated from her face in an instant, and she collapsed onto the couch with a sigh. He followed her lead, though carefully choosing the rocking chair quite some distance away from her. Momentarily, she stared into space, but then she enlightened Snape to her thoughts. 

Rather abruptly, compared to Luna. The Ravenclaw would typically let out a slight trickle of information, occasionally drawing forth information from him as well, then gradually ease into a deep conversation. Hermione did not go through this prefunction, and instead dealt with the heart of the matter immediately.

"I wish I had waited. I really do," she said, in a manner that was heart-wrenching. "There was really no reason _not _to wait. But . . . with Ron, well, our first together was the night we vanquished Voldemort. Harry was overridden by the media, and we were alone by ourselves, metaphorically licking our wounds. Then, well . . . in our jubilation, we got a bit carried away. I thought for years I was in love with him, but when I saw him there the next morning . . . in his bed . . . him in his birthday suit . . . well, I decided that I wasn't. But I couldn't just . . . just stop it there. We were fairly regular afterwards about it, and we both enjoyed it, but I didn't love him anymore. I don't anymore—I care for him as a friend, but not as a lover."

_Why is she talking to me like this? She's so . . . open. Shocking. But what are most sickening are these mental images . . ._

His look of puzzlement was misinterpreted. Hermione's distress was quite evident, as she looked with reproach upon her hands, which twisted with suppressed anguish. "Doubtless . . . doubtless you think I could never be so foolish. I myself wouldn't have though myself so foolish. But . . . well, I was. Quite unfortunately. I made a terrible mistake. And I'm going to keep paying for it, all my life. For, after all, no one else would want _me_, of all people. Especially _spoiled _by a boy, already." A smirk lit upon her face. "At least he wasn't technically my first—Victor was."

Snape felt pain in the ambiance as despondence came back upon her in a wave. "But people were able to look past my escapade with Victor as being without real basis . . . people could forget that. Victor was foreign, and famous . . . even if it did raise a scandal, people wouldn't blame me too much for a young affair that was doomed never to succeed. Ron can't look past it, of course, but _his _first was smutty Lavender Brown, so he has no reason to complain. But in all technicality, no one can really forget this strange relationship I have had with Ron . . . I mean, I love him, but more platonically now than anything. And it bothers me that I have to keep pretending I'm romantically set upon him."

"Why must you continue?" It made no sense to Snape . . . he had never been in such a novel situation. More often than not, he pretended to hate the people he felt most endeared to, so he was exactly the wrong person for her to ask for advice. He never had felt compelled to _love _someone who repulsed him. 

Unless Voldemort counted.

Hermione's dim smile was more dismal than cheering. "He's sick, professor. His parents neglect him in his family, always looking over him in their little hierarchy. He's even lower than his little sister, because she gets raised up due to her gender. I mean, really. It's not like they abuse him or anything, but . . . Molly sends him maroon sweaters at Christmas . . . and he hates maroon. Things like that, not rightfully wrong but just inconsiderate. There's only one person who can be considerate to Ron in the way he wants, and that's me."

Snape knew quite a lot about inconsiderate mothers, but decided not to say anything about Eileen; it would serve no purpose to talk about her with the girl . . . his to-be-potions-apprentice. _Damn. I keep forgetting that. _He could, however, agree to the fact that the Weasleys were not what he thought ideal parents. He did, however, have the impression that they were better than his own, and he did not pity Ron in the least. Even if the boy got maroon sweaters at Christmas, at least he got _something. _

"Well," he weighed, "He is merely your friend. You are his peer, and thus really have no power over his home situation. Haven't you ever read anything about the complexes of women who endear themselves to a man for the mere sake of their far-fetched idea that they need to provide them with a new mother figure? From what I've heard and read, it works up to a degree—but later, when the man encounters a burst of maturity and desires love for the sake of love, if he's scrupulous the arrangement he will be devastatingly unhappy, and if he is not scrupulous the arrangement will truly become more muddled by infidelity." 

Hermione was more than a trifle shocked at this prospect, but she regained herself swiftly and decidedly. "Professor, no, please don't think I'm like those women! I don't feel like he's my son—no indeed, I feel nothing like maternal towards him!"

"That is fine, then," he replied coolly, not altogether pleased at this declaration since it only made the problem more convoluted and difficult to define. "But," he stated truthfully, "That makes analyzing your problem no easier. Now, I must admit, I am exactly the worst person at this school to discuss these affairs of the heart, Miss Granger, especially in the capacity as an advisor."

"Oh, I'm sorry." She was taken aback, startled, becoming suddenly alert, almost as though the whole time she had been under the impression that she was talking to herself and just then discovered his presence. "I didn't mean to come off as . . . well, I was only really speaking conversationally, as opposed to asking for advice." Pausing, she folded her legs up under her, lotus-style, as she rearranged her thoughts. "I trust your rational judgment, though," she said gravely, trying to hide her embarrassment. "I'm simply at my wit's end . . ." Her voice trailed off into nothingness, and Snape actually felt sorry for the girl. "I've probably been sounding very selfish; I beg your pardon." 

The potions master noted that her voice was tinged with formality, and he hastened to vanish it away again. "No, selfishness is merely human nature," he conceded, settling further back into his chair, fingers clasped together in a meditative church-and-steeple stance. "Every man—except a fictional one—is afflicted with the vice."

"I suppose," she said dully, then lapsed into silence. She looked away from him, staring at the warm wood-paneled walls of the teacher's lounge. 

They were quiet for some minutes, neither saying anything; Snape had nothing to say, and Hermione was refusing to speak. After some deliberation, Snape decided that he ought to rise and go. As he made the motion, however, her head snapped about instinctively to face him, and he saw that her face was embellished with immaculate pearls of tears. 

"Don't . . . " she pleaded, stopping before she could say 'leave'. 

Surprised at himself, Snape complied, seating himself once more without hesitation. _Damn girl, she's overwrought. May as well oblige her, if it makes her less distressed. Though, she really ought to take that nap she insisted upon!_

Hermione seemed to be studying his face with the ferocity that she perhaps better directed at an arithmancy textbook. Then, abruptly, while half-heartedly attempting to wipe away the saline lines running down her face, she said: "Do you know, Professor, how badly I wish I had been able to save you?"

The sudden change in conversation subject, plus the fact that she was so distraught about _him _was overwhelming. 

"I . . . no, I-"

She had the audacity to interrupt him!

"-I was speaking rhetorically," she spat with a decent amount of contempt, with an impatience of tone worthy of the potions master himself. "Professor, I have to confess that I've felt inordinately guilty about your death. I feel that I could have prevented it. I know I probably have said something to the accord about my being sorry we didn't do anything, but I want to make it clear that the simplicity I presented was quite the under-exaggeration."

At his blank look—he still was initially shocked at her insistence—she closed her eyes to continue her rant unabated. 

"We left you, Professor . . . like a bloody lost shoe! Didn't even bother to . . . to cover your dead body . . . or any other decencies . . . I don't believe it of myself to this day . . . I can't believe it . . . but it's true. We did nothing, did absolutely nothing to even try to save you—I was in a state of shock, that's my only excuse, but anybody can ignore shock in the face of danger—I mean, part of the fact that I was so astounded was the fact that I bloody figured out, much too late, that you were Dumbledore's man the entire time . . . but I thought my idea was impossible, that even though the Dark Lord had accosted and murdered you in good faith, that you had been deceiving him the entire time for the cause of the good . . . and I thought it was impossible . . . but I was so stupid that I didn't even consider the idea until the second you were attacked . . . and I couldn't even bring myself to do anything about saving you. I thought it was impossible, but I should have acted on my sudden intuition! I've scorned women's intuition for years, but it might have saved you if I had been not so stubborn. I could have saved you, Professor, a thousand hundred bloody ways!"

She was infuriated at herself, even more vehement and red than he had ever sen her, even in her chastisement of Ron or Potter—she hated herself for this, clearly. She really, truly hated herself. 

A brief moment passed, when she fell completely upon the arm of the sofa, sobbing her poor eyes to dry. Snape, aghast, was at first motionless to do anything. 

"I've been . . . so . . . stupid . . . me, who has prided herself on always being the smart one!" she garbled. "I've replayed the scene over and over and over again, tortured and punished for my indolence and lack of wit, and I see now I could have done so much—even if I had to kick Harry out of the way, for he wouldn't have understood—but my God! I just stood there like a bloody daft fool and watched you die!"

He was not quite sure how to react to this. Uncomfortably, he stood and sat beside her on the couch, albeit separated by a careful six inches. 

"Miss Granger," he spoke, trying to be soft but afraid that he came off as rough, "I wish you wouldn't beat yourself over the head like this. If I knew you were so adamant with punishing yourself like a house-elf, I would have done something about it sooner. It won't resolve matters, I'm sure you understand."

She ignored him, or else just had no reply—he would not be the best one to judge that. He hated situations like this. _Oh hell . . ._

"No, you're right on that point, of course—bleating will not change the past." 

She said nothing else, reluctant to accepting the truth. Again a silence ensued, until Snape thought perhaps she had fallen asleep. 

He was just thinking about moving when she queried, "Do you have a time turner?" Her voice was meek, and there was a distinguishable ray of hope in it. "I could borrow Harry's invisibility cloak and . . ."

"No!" The idea was so shocking that Snape quite stood up with alarm. "No indeed! Don't even consider the idea!" 

So saying, he began to pace back and forth in front of her. _The girl is getting dangerous ideas, if this is what she can come up with. _

"You cannot do that, Miss Granger," he said again, vehemently. Then, deciding that putting his confidence in her would be the only way to quell her self-anger, he suggested, "Miss Granger, only one other person knows this, and I don't want this spread about or repeated—not to anyone, namely Potter or any Weasley."

Quietly, he resumed his place on the couch, having her fullest attention. "Miss Granger, the only reason I tell you this at all is because it would make things really dreadfully inconvenient if you carried out such a fatuous plan, and knowing this would prevent you from doing anything."

With as much attention as he expected she would display, Hermione sat up, rubbing her voice devoid of tears. Trying not to look at her when he said it, he softly stated: "I had anticipated the Dark Lord's usage of Nagini upon me, and was prepared for it."

He felt in his cloak for the vial of potion which, for un-discernible reason, refused to budge except when he was in a semi-living state. "Watch," he told her, and gently touched her arm a moment until he was solid. Then, with his free hand, he withdrew the vial, filled with an amber-green liquid. 

Hermione's eyes followed his every move, and he felt her hairs prickle when his fingers moved just the slightest on her arm. Suddenly, he withdrew his appendage, and he turned vaporous again; in the same instant, the vial disappeared from his hand, and he felt its weight in his cloak pocket once more. This experiment he had already exhibited to Luna, though she herself had no explanation for the phenomena. 

The Gryffindor brainiac already had come up with a reason for the occurrence. "So," she declared solemnly, "That's your fetter."

"Pardon?"

"Your fetter. Like in Dicken's _A Christmas Carol, _Joseph Marley is fettered by his cold gold and cash-boxes—that antidote to the venom is yours." She paused. "Have you tried to destroy it?"

"Yes, he replied, and, repeating his previous motions, solidized again, withdrew the vial and, this time, dashed it violently to the ground. When he resumed his state of vapor, the scattered fragments of glass and sticky mess disappeared entirely, to only become solid again when he demonstrated its wholeness to Hermoine. 

"I imagine it is really indestructible, then," the girl said carefully, taking the vial from him, but with the arm that he was holding onto at the moment. She drew it to her nose, to carefully catch the scent of the potion, but in such a way that she caused his fingers to brush against her cheek. 

Unsettled by this, his hand tore away instantly, and the vial disappeared from her own. 

_Bugger, man, you really musn't be scared when you accidentally touch a girl! It's not like you're raping her or anything! Merlin! Get over it!_

He shook off the disconcerting thought and realized that, perhaps, Hermione was not comprehending the significance of the vial. 

"Anyhow, you do not perceive the meaning of the vial, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, yes, I do," she said, somewhat startled and looking a bit 'put out' as some might say. "You were not going to fight to preserve your life even though you had the key to it right there."

He was relieved; now she would understand. "Yes, indeed. I consider it . . . well, a passive suicide."

At this confirmation, however, her expression changed from mildly interested to keenly angry. "You basically killed yourself?"

"To be truthful, if I had lived . . . my own guilt would have brought me to an active one by now, I must say." He was slightly haughty, almost proud to declare it. 

She was utterly horrified, to his chagrin. "So . . . you prefer your current state of death?"

"Actually, yes. Forgive me for all the mental anguish it must have caused you," he apologized. "I do appreciate that . . . well, you care enough to worry like yo have, but I hope I've allayed all traces of guilt you may have, for they are definitely misplaced."

"Oh, professor!" Hermione cried soberly. "I'm really very sorry that you felt you had to do that. I truly am."

"There's no need to go on about it, again." He felt his voice becoming more hard and irritated with every insistence, and had to force himself to keep as gentle as possible. 

Her next words, however, posed thoughtfully, astounded him. "I thought you were stronger than that."

"Than what?" he bristled, bedside-manner completely and obviously gone at this point. "You thought I was stronger than what?"

"I thought would be strong enough to fight for your life even when it wasn't worth living."

Snape stared at her, and found her staring just as ardently. He winced at her gaze unconsciously. "Well," he spat, "With all technicality, the very blood in my veins was being poisoned—in a few moments I was in paralysis as it was. I couldn't have-"

Again she interrupted, "-You would have found a way." She was cold, stubborn, drawing her legs up in such a way that she hugged them to her chest, folding herself into a great ball of frizz. Snape was surprised by her lack of sympathy—if anything, his confession made her guilt worse, apparently.

"You, Miss Granger, are very intolerant!" he fumed, rising from the couch with unleashed anger. "I expected _you _to be more_ compassionate!"_

"Why should I be?" she retorted. "I can't respect a man who would allow such a thing to happen—who would just let himself die like a stray cat hit by a motor—for no good reason!"

"I had plenty of reason! I had outlived my usefulness in the world! I was a murderer who lived with the constant anguish of having survived, either after participating in or engineering entirely the deaths of the people and held the most affection for, plus many I knew to be absolutely innocent of all wrongdoing! For a good cause, perhaps, but it was no less terrifying! My own soul was in shreds, and I'm still recovering!"

He had come to be shouting by this point and Hermione's face reflected something between fear and awe. 

"You think yourself so pious, scorning me for desiring to end the wretched, horrible life I led? How dare you! You never imagined that for every poor soul lamenting Dumbledore's confounded death, I felt a thousand stabs to my own conscience? You've never seen innocent men, women, _children_ tortured for sport, and killed, with no power to stop those responsible, coupled with the agency of having to sometimes JOIN THEM! Merlin! If you feel guilt for letting _me _die—Well! If you feel anger that I 'succumbed', or some such nonsense, to the peace I expected to gain by dieing, can you realistically blame me? I had lived for so long with all that weighing upon me, and you expect that I ought to have continued to do so for another hundred years? I believe that I have proved my so called 'strength' a thousand times over by the time I chose to end it. Even Atlas deserves liberation, Miss Granger!"

They sat a few moments in a redundant silence, in which Snape realized he was hyperventilating, and he began to measure his breaths more slowly to end his excitement. 

Hermione stood, pale and drawn. "There's only one reason I'm mad about it," she said slowly, advancing and crossing the two paces that separated them. In a straightforward manner, she pressed her hand against his head and—having to stand on tiptoe—kissed him, long and ardently on his firm lips.

He did not respond. Shock, bewilderment, and terror filled him all at once, and he might have fainted if he were susceptible to such weakness. As it was, in a daze, he realized Hermione Granger had pulled her head away from him, ever so slightly, and then, realizing what she had done, she fled from the room. 

Snape had stood for a moment, blinkingly throwing his glance around the room, wondering how in the world these things happened to him. 

_Bloody, bloody, bloody hell. Bloody f__ucking hell. She kissed me. _

Rationally, he knew he had to make a decision right then and there. Speaking aloud seemed to clarify it, make it more real. He could not tell things straight at the present in his head alone. 

"Miss Hermione Granger is my student. She is just like every other foolish child who has come under an unfathomable delusion of adoration for me. I did not enjoy what she just did in any way, neither am I at all attracted to or interested in Miss Granger. If I ever am, I swear I will do nothing about it."

He added as an afterthought, _I shan't mention this to anyone—she'll get over the initial mortification soon enough, practical girl that she is._

Without a worry—ostensibly, for he knew some of what he told himself was false, but he was unsure how to discern the lies from the truth—he settled down on the couch again, and thought he might read a book. 

* * *

_I pity the governor of NY; he must have been a very unhappy man to do what he did. Still a right bloody bastard, though. _

_I made up the web address on Pince's research; I don't think it works. _


	29. You Love Her, Don't You?

_I am back from the realms of AP European history, for better or for worse. Here's a long-awaited chapter! Enjoy, and welcome me back in a comment, please!_

**Chapter 29**

As he expected, Snape saw practically nothing of Granger for a good long while. In class, she refused to raise her hand—horrors!--and consequently he did not call upon her. If he ever caught sight of her in the halls, heading his way, she would sidestep into a convenient corridor and prevent an encounter. If they did have to pass within a particular vicinity of each other, she never dared to look into his eyes. He was slightly amused by her mortification, but was nevertheless uncomfortable with the fact that she had taken such a liberty as she had. _She had _better_ be humiliated. The girl has to get a grip on herself or she'll never survive in this world. Too many men in my place would exploit her after that experience. If I were in the Ministry . . . good Merlin, she'd be pregnant by _now.

However, as much as he thought about the experience with Hermione, he remained blissfully unresponsive to her display of affection, as impassive mentally as he had been physically the moment she had introduced it. _I've had a good deal of practice not going all aflutter with the stupid girls swooning after me for years—so now when a smart one does, I'm not susceptible. _It gave him confidence to realize this, and an unusual readiness to endure her apprenticeship. Somewhat in the manner that a woman on a diet would be able to say—aha, bring out the donuts and put them on the table, but I won't ever touch them because I hate donuts now!--he was able to tell himself that, absolutely, he would not fall into her grasp. He had no desire to do so, after contemplating long and hard about whether he ought to or not. Besides, every time the notion that he _might _fall in her snares repulsed him as soon as he remembered Lily.

Lily. Still, even after he had resolved to forget her, she still haunted him. _Well, Rome wasn't built in a day, and I suppose it wasn't destroyed in one either. Sorry, Luna. _

Snape was leaving the breakfast hall with Luna, two days after the strange encounter with Hermione, having a perfectly swimming conversation through legilimency.

_-Of course it won't be easy. I never said it would, did I?_

They were on their way to their respective destinations, which, coincidentally, were in a similar direction. Luna had transfiguration in a bit with Professor Percy, and Snape was headed to the teacher's lounge in order to meet Pince and with her visit Drosselmeyer again.

_-I do not believe so. Nevertheless . . . _

_-You shouldn't be so bastardly._

_-Bastardly? That adverb is not like you._

_-They use it in a lot of old Victorian books._

_-Hmph. More like _dastardly, _dear._

_-Well, if you say so._

_-You shouldn't have interrupted in the first place._

_-I'm sorry. But really, you shouldn't expect so much of yourself._

Snape snorted with slight amusement.

_-Not as though you have the right to talk! You're barely of age and already are in charge of a business, and a major media publisher no less! You're unique in that except for the Weasley twins, and god knows what they've become._

_-I really feel very sorry for George._

_-So do I. _

_-It must be terrible to be separated from what is virtually half of one. Just as bad as tearing apart with a horocrux, probably._

_-Imagine the damned dark lord, splitting his soul into seven. _

They reflected in moderate mental silence the terror the man must have faced, though Snape felt no compassion, and Luna only the hint of it.

_-You were talking about Allen Hiller the other day. What else did he do?_

_-You mean Hitler. Adolf Hitler._

_-Yeah, him._

_-He's the best historical comparison to Voldemort I can find. The terrible thing about him is, he wrote a book about what he intended to do, what his philosophy was—how he hated Jews and such, and that he thought they should all die—but the mere fact that he was a good orator was what mainly brought him to the office of chancellor of Germany under President Hindenberg. He was especially good at the propaganda the people needed while in the middle of a depression. Hindenberg was keeping him in check, predominantly, until the old man died—and then the devil came out of the man entirely and Hitler began his crusade against capitalism and communism. And basically everyone who was _not_ an 'Aryan' or German. People say that he was a Jew, though,_(1)_ which serves as ironically as the fact that Voldemort was a half-blood. Like me. _

_-But I probably would have been okay, if I lived back then, right?_

_-Well, actually, wizardkind was really little effected by the World Wars, which I think very strange. It seems we barely noticed it except for the depression. None of us went to war, as far as I know. It was just a bunch of Muggle foolishness, or so everyone has written. But based on what I've gathered over the years . . . it was really quite traumatizing. What with trench warfare and all. Can you imagine, living for months in a dirt trench in the middle of nowhere, dead bodies falling all about . . . you think OUR battles are bad, just read something about the Muggles and what THEY do to each other. Plus their nuclear weapons . . . oh Merlin. _

He shuddered visibly at the thought, and thought fervently, in a manner somewhat akin to a prayer but not particularly addressed to a god, that neither he nor Luna would live (himself metaphorically) to see a day where the world was under nuclear attack.

_-So, basically, we're lucky we survived at all?_

_-Exactly. Actually, there was quite a lot of damage to British wizarding communities due to the bombings and such, especially in London, but the Ministry thought it proper to hush it all up to keep the peace. Those idiot politicians. If we went into another depression, they'd never even admit it. _

-_Mind if I join the conversation?_

The strange voice impeded suddenly through their mutual thoughts, and Snape and Luna's unity broke. They both spun around, to face the Bloody Baron.

"Sorry, I could not but help it," he apologized, a frigid grin gracing his face.

Luna had not spoken much to the Bloody Baron before, but was unafraid of him entirely. "Good day, Baron," she declared politely, curtsying in an old-fashioned manner not unbecoming to her. "It was more of a history lesson than anything else."

"Oh, I daresay I could tell you much about history," the old ghost sighed dismally, "Though I do believe some of the facts have gotten a bit muddled over the years. Speaking of history, have you seen Binns lately?"

Snape could see where this was headed. Since his last heart-to-heart with the Fat Friar, he had rather avoided the other ghosts. The Friar's . . . idiosyncrasies . . . rather put him ill-at-ease with the rest of the ghosts, and he had not been to Eden, even for his meals, in a good many days. Surrounding himself with live people, in essence, to forget his own wretched state of deadness. Doubtless, the Baron and others were slighted at his lack of company.

"I actually have been keeping an eye on Binns," he said, albeit apologetically. In fact, Binns was the only ghost Snape had been even close to socializing with for weeks. Although, of course, this was mainly because the history professor was the only other ghost who ever took his evaporated meals in the Great Hall with the other teachers. Even so, Binns was morbidly depressed, going about his duties with a transparent sense of willingness that held no basis with anyone who knew him. Actually, so few people really cared to know him that Snape did not think that anyone else had come to notice.

"He looks a right sad sight, and no one knows why," the Baron replied, twisting his lacy cuff ponderously. "Granted, he never was the most cheery of people, but he always used to be somewhat less . . . well, dead." The ghost's icy, false laughter rang through the halls, disturbing even with the background noise of lively chatter in the Great Hall, which was not far off from where they were. His morbid sense of humor began to grate on Snape, who wondered if the other ghost could make any puns besides those involving death. "In all seriousness, though, you have seen his most obvious change in attitude?"

"Rather," Snape admitted.

Luna decided to get in a word edgewise. "But I should be rather more worried about Friar Honnete, would you not say?"

_Leave it to Luna to be the only student in the school who calls the Hufflepuff ghost by his real name. She hates epithets to the point where she refuses to use them on others, I fancy._

The Baron gave a sharp laugh. This morning, he seemed to assert as good a humor as he ever could have. "Oh, I shouldn't worry about him. The poor jolly man gets like this periodically, but always bounces back in a few years, none the worse for wear. He just gets to pondering too often; I daresay he prays too much. You don't get any less dead by asking God for forgiveness, but he keeps on trying on the off-chance that he's been a sole mistake."

_"God Makes No Mistakes" _Snape remembered Honnete had said, nevertheless.

"Though King George knows why he's down here with such lousy sinners as us," continued the Baron, unusually garrulous.

Again, he laughed, though no less nasal or forced than the other times. Unused to this strange pseudo-optimistic streak, Snape nodded curtly. "I see. Well, that was his own explanation of it himself, so I fear I cannot elaborate. Binns does seem quite ill in the mind, however, I would agree."

_"Well, I suppose I just might kill two birds with one stone, so to say; inform you of one of the strangest things to happen to a ghost, prove there is still a chance beyond this life, and also to let you know why, come my next deathday, I will be gone." _Snape had remembered the conversation he had with Binns very vividly unto this day, and the words sprung to his brain instantly. He had mused over them very much since their utterance, and was somewhat saddened at the idea that the poor history professor's life had been so deuced unlucky.

"It's not as though he has any especial reason to be happy," he suggested, and hoped the Baron might pick up on the hint. The ghost did not.

"No, but, then, none of us do!" Again, the false, hideous high laugh. Snape wanted to leave the Baron rather soon.

"We ought to go," Luna declared, perceptive and considerate as ever, "Good day to you, Baron!"

"Good day to you too, mademoiselle, Snape," the ghost nodded to them both, then, seeing himself dismissed, floated away the direction he came.

"Wait, Baron?" This came from the girl. Curious, Severus wondered what she intended to do.

The Baron turned, a hint of arsenic annoyance lacing his voice. "Prithee, what is it?"

In the most congenial, artfully innocuous voice for which many lauded her, Luna queried: "Have you talked to the Grey Lady since the Battle?"

Unable to dodge the impetuous inquisition, which was clearly a Dumbledore-like jab of revenge for his own impertinence, the Baron growled in return. "Why ever so? I never have been to her 'standard'; she condemns me for my past actions even now . . . and she blames me for having lost the confounded diadem that made her abandon her mother. We have not spoken more than a hundred words in the nigh three hundred years we have resided here, in death." As he spoke, he advanced towards them again, every vaporous muscle on his frame twitching, every link of every chain on his body melodious. "Little girl," he reprimanded, "I wear chains that she has virtually draped around me, that she condones to see on me. Why on earth would I have anything to say to her?"

"You love her," suggested the girl, insouciant.

The stony anger evaporated from the Baron's tone, and he chose to laugh again, painful and contracted. "I did, did I not?" he rhetorically pronounced, then unexpectedly drew a heavy breath and began to recite. "You call it, Love lies bleeding, -- so you may, Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, From month to month, life passing not away:  
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops, (Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvelous power) Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent, Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!" He stopped abruptly, incredulous of his own self. "Wordsworth," he admitted in wistful attribution, then made a suggestion to leave.

"Talk to her," insisted Luna of the persuasive eyes. "Do at least try. Things might be different, now that the diadem is no longer an obstacle to stand between you."

Curtly nodding, with a queer look in his eye, the Baron again testified his salutations and dispensed on his merry way.

Luna poked her thoughts into Severus' phantasmal brain, to resume their conversation as they went along their own path.

-No one else could have said that to him and got away with it besides yourself, Luna.

-Said what? I said nothing but the truth!

-Well, for many people, they know the truth, but don't like other people to divulge it to them.

-Perhaps. I daresay you know from experience?

(Snape cringed noticeably.)

-You are most perceptive.

-Well, I think we ought to do something for poor Binns. At least cheer him up a bit.

_-_ Your legilimency is definitely improving, Luna; notice you did not struggle as much this time as before. But as to Binns, he won't need our cheer, and likely won't want a penny of it. He's going to be leaving earth relatively soon.

_-Oh? How?_

_-Some strange phenomenon. We don't have an explanation for it, but he'll be gone upon his next deathday, whenever it is._

_-Oh. Well, we should still do something for the Friar. Maybe we can help him so he doesn't get depressed anymore. It can't be healthy for him, going all melancholy like he does. I know, I feel terrible when I'm depressed. _

_-It's truly wretched. _

"I need to think about something to help him."

This Luna spoke aloud, looking at her friend and teacher knowingly.

"If you could contrive some plot that would actually succeed . . ." replied Snape carefully, measuring his enthusiasm. He liked the notion more than he cared to admit; from his own experiences, he liked to get support in his worst times as much as he usually fought against it initially. He doubted that the Friar would fight against any advances on Luna's part, either.

"I think I can make anything succeed," proposed Luna delicately. "I'll see you later; let me know all about the experience with the Weasleys."

"For certain, Luna."

They parted, with a benevolent smile on the girl's part and a reflection of it in the old potion master's heart.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

This was kinda a catching-up chapter. Checking in with a lot of characters I haven't touched on in a while. A few political concepts, too. Hope you enjoyed; next one will be very long. I assure you. Thanks for sticking on the boat!


	30. Poison Pens Never Prosper

_Excuse me if my chapters seem to get shorter, but I want to be more regular in updating. _

_As a side note, please take a look at Ch. 1. I've edited it significantly, and you may find in it some clues as to later chapters. I've got Ch. 2 significantly edited as well, and you can expect its revised edition sometime before 6/9/08. Maybe even tomorrow, no promises though._

_Please, PLEASE don't get scared off. I guarantee you that **THIS IS NOT AN HGSS!! **I swear it on my life! I would never lie to you in these a/n things, ever! She's just a schoolgirl-almost-woman with a terrible, terrible crush! So don't get all creeped out and leave terrified comments on this! I mean, reviews are great and all, but when I have to tell everyone over and over that, no, don't hate me, this isn't an HGSS, I have someone much better and apt than Hermione picked out for Snape . . . it gets rather tiresome. _

_So please. Just enjoy the story and don't worry about thfis being HGSS. That's my twenty-two cents._

**Chapter 30**

Hermione had cried quite a lot after her dreadful lack of self-control with the ghostly potions-master. Tears had flowed as she barreled out of the room, had continued to wet a bewildered Harry's shoulder for over an hour afterwards, and marked her pillow when uncomfortable remembrances made her toss in her bed. The mattress creaked a great many times that night, and in the nights that followed, for her particular uncomfortable remembrances were innumerable.

Most people would not suspect her to be the sort to fall into a trance of sexual lust, as she was so dutifully pedantic and academic, but she felt more of that emotion than many imagined. Indeed, part of the reason she 'opened' so quickly to Victor Krum was the fact that she had 'practiced' beforehand.

From the moment she understood sex, she wanted to be perfect the first time, as perfection was something she achieved in everything else. In all consciousness, the first time her hand explored unwarranted places on her body, it was an 'experiment' to 'see what all the fuss is about'. At least, that is what she told herself in the summer of her third year. When her hand came away, warm and slightly sticky, she decided the 'whole thing' was pointless and stupid, but a nagging in the back of her astute mind suggested that, perhaps, she had 'done it wrong'. The adage 'If at first you do not succeed, try, try again' came to mind at the time.

It was this notion that brought her back to a similar compromising position, again and again in private, until she came rather to enjoy the process. Whether she had succeeded the first time or not was irrelevant; whatever she had come to feel was something she could tangibly appreciate. Of course, part of the process was missing in her 'practicing'—the part that the man played, of course—but, she reasoned, when the _right_ _one_ came, she would know how to best accomplish the feat expected of her.

Victor had been her _right one_;her only true _right one_, when it came down to it. Ron was definitely the _wrong one_, and unfortunately she knew that though her teacher Snape was a _right one _for her, she was a _wrong one _for him. This necessary fact was considered irrelevant, however, when she was alone in the dark.

His visage entranced her, even or possibly especially when it blossomed in her mind; her fascination with his hair, skin, and nose was unending. The primitive thrust, so perilously close to nauseating though actually invigorating, came only from her own device. Her own stubby fingers might as well have been _his_ long curving ones in the musky half-light of her dormitory four-poster. A graceful brush of her wrist might as well have been a kiss from another parallel physical body. A bit of stiff sponge, after much experimentation, proved to be the most effective of tools for the Primary Purpose besides the Real Thing. Though she appreciated Snape for his intellectual brawn, for some reason it was just as easy to appreciate him in a fanciful way, as cum the bedroom.

Consciously, she did not even consider the idea that he would be even halfway interested in taking her down with all the ferocity she imagined, but, then, the process of imagining allowed for that fallacy. It was all she could do to not faint after a session of her particular brand of imagining, for the combined thrill of what she considered completion and the dreadful recall back to reality drained her entirely. Visions gave way to full-blown fantasy more quickly than was healthy, but Hermione put no check upon herself. After all was said and done, she told herself, she deserved some amount of enjoyment in life; all her work and worry took a dreadful toll on her, and if she wanted to have some fun at the expense of an already-lacking sleep schedule, she should have that right. Improvement of judgement might have benefited her, for she overestimated her own health.

Again, though for all her cravings and fantasies in the later hours, her daytime relationship with Snape was still a teacher-student one. She had questions, he had answers; she wanted to be his apprentice, he was to be her master. When she had deigned to go so far as to kiss him in reality, her long-hidden passions edging their way to the surface, the balance was dramatically upset. Dreaming had verged on the point of reality in such a manner that it was terrible for her to cope. It was more than just embarrassment that brought about her change of attitude towards her teacher; it was an exhausted bewilderment as well.

Confusion fazed her, brought her to her knees, carried her already overwrought mind to states of extremes. One incident would set her in tears, another set her laughing hysterically. She felt like she was very drunk—not that she had ever been severely intoxicated, true, but in the way that she had read it described. The crux of the matter was that she did not know what to do with herself; she, the wonderful brainiac who _always_ knew what to do! She wondered if the floundering she felt was something that faced ordinary people very often, wondered how to remedy the situation but not seeing any feasible way.

She felt sure that she had ruined her chances with him, not only romantically but academically as well. In response to this knowledge, she caved. Now she felt a constant burning in the back of her throat, words unsaid and questions unspoken roasting her uvula and searing her esophagus. Now she prevented herself from even looking at him, even thinking of him. What was it worth, the pain? It was most easily endured alone.

She supposed she would have to go into an apprenticeship with McGonagall in Transfigurations, after all.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Expediting his entry into the teacher's lounge to meet Pince was not something that Snape relished. However, he was due for his appointment with Drosselmeyer, and the staunchly acrimonious librarian insisted on accompanying him.

_Well, better her than Granger, after all; that would be awkward,_ thought Severus. He wanted neither enigma, of course, but settled on the fact that at least Pince would not burst into tears at his sight.

When he slipped into the lounge, Pince was settled in the rocking chair that Severus himself was partial to, her glasses drunkenly settled below the bridge of her nose, and her handkerchief in her hands. At his entrance, however, she quickly stood, all sense of vulnerability dissipating in an instant. Handkerchief disappeared, glasses shoved in place, and to all extents and purposes she had been impatiently tapping her feet for a quarter hour.

"Well! Where have _you _been lollygagging?" she demanded hotly, arms crossed protectively over futile excuses for breasts.

Snape shrugged, not deeming it worth his breath to explain one iota of his conversation with Luna and the Baron. Even if he felt the slightest inclination to broach the subject, the woman would misconstrue it entirely, and leave him feeling like a dirty old man for having—with her apostrophes—_'befriended'_ one of his students.

"Why do you utterly loathe and despise me?" he proposed wearily, gliding to the fireplace without even glaring at the librarian.

To his utmost astonishment, she was astonished. She displayed her astonished astonishment with an uncharacteristically hanging jaw and an astonished astonishment in her eyes.

"Why, I've never loathed or despised you," Pince said, terribly stricken. "Why ever would you think that?"

The whole situation was all too hilarious, but Snape refused to succumb. "I thought you had the smallest moiety of a brain," he snarked bitterly, "But I suppose too much exposure to the outdated remarks of dead men is enough to stunt any person's level of perception."

In a stupid manner—though, thinking later, Snape decided she was mocking his remark—Pince blinked, took a step backward, and shook her head in annoyance.

"How am I supposed to take that?" She sounded almost perplexed.

"However the damn hell you like," jeered Snape back, taking a handful of floo powder. "Now come now, hurry up, look who's lollygagging now."

Without a word, Pince grabbed his arm, somewhat more gently than a few days prior, careful not to bore her long nails through his shirt-sleeve. As Snape formulated into solidity once more, he mused:

_Is she actually . . . no, somehow I don't think so. She's not penitent at all; she's a cat right now, a cat who has been almost caught in her own trap, and now she pretends to lick her wounds so that her prey will be at her advantage when he assumes her to be lame, that he might tarry over to investigate, then be at her mercy all the easier. I'm not going to tarry, and I'm not going to bloody investigate, either. _

He considered it nevertheless strange to hear her silent for so long. Although most of their less vociferous encounters over the years did take place in the library, where she did have to be quiet unless some imbecile like him turned in a book with writing in the margins, wherever else she was (such as the infirmary) she dominated the scene atomically and automatically. Turning up like a bad and very obnoxious penny seemed to be her favorite pastime beyond the realms of the books. Quiet, and without the accompaniment of a tome, was a jeweled rarity in her existence.

"I don't hate you," she said at last, poring voraciously over the floor as though attempting to decipher ancient runes covering it. At the moment, they had emerged into the fireplace in the waiting room that led to the hallway that led to the foyer of the mental institution. Sprightly as a schoolgirl, she broke away from Severus as though he had been holding her back, and in an instant she was gone through the door.

"Hmph. Seems as though she meant it," muttered Snape darkly, a snide cast to his oily tones. He picked a bit of dust off his appendage, and hastened forth in a similar pursuit. A lackadaisical secretary in the middle of a floo-call emitted a lamentable cry of outrage at the disruption, but neither ghost nor fiend paid any heed.

. . . x . . X . . . x . . .

Drosselmeyer was in a fine state that day, trying his best to play the dual role of professional caretaker and avid literary fan. Haggard lines seemed to be ever-present on his face as he sat before two nerve-wrecked Weasley parents, a hysterical female teenager, a ghost, and a possibly vampiric librarian. Like at the previous unexpected meeting with Snape and Pince, he left his scary ritualistic bird-mask unobtrusively to the side, washing him of any ethereal appearance. Ron lay behind him, awake but inattentive, gazing at the ceiling in a manner unforeign to Luna Lovegood in her most pensive of moods. Snape inferred that the boy had been put under the greatest of calming potions and spells for this meeting.

" . . . and so, that is the premise of the solution that was brought very kindly to me by the great Potions Master, Professor Snape," droned Drosselmeyer, concluding his explanation to the Weasley parents.

"I had a part in it, myself!" cried Pince shrilly, but even Molly Weasley paid her not the slightest of glances.

Hermione, eyes red and swollen with the proper obligation of a teenage girlfriend, bit her tongue after a quick glance at the lauded Potions Master. She hoped this futile glance, the first she had cast his way since he and Pince entered the room punctually on the hour named, would be unnoticed. Thus, when he caught the absent-minded scrutiny of two hazelnut eyes upon him, a cherry blush of mortification rose to her cheeks. Interestingly, she did not avert her eyes until Drosselmeyer directly commended her for

" . . . having this marvelous idea, without which we would not be here on this . . . this _nouvelle_ experimentation . . ."

After which, with her particular habit of watching speakers intently, she could not bear to part her pupils from the form of the psychic. This was their first interpersonal relation since what Snape amusedly termed as 'the Incident', and the ghost only hoped she would get over her crush quickly. It made things deuced awkward.

" . . . and so, it would entail just this slight agreement on your part . . ."

Snape was not really paying attention to the whole conversation being laid out before him, but then, suddenly, he was recalled to it by the words:

"No, Psychic Drosselmeyer, I do not agree with this plan."

Finding himself blinking in automatic disbelief, he looked to see the stern visage of Arthur Weasley, lips set in a firm line.

"What?" Three voices in unison: his own, Granger's, and Pince's rang aloud.

The Psychic was stunned as well. "I do ask you to reconsider, Mr. Weasley, for we believe it is the best way to go about the remedying of your son."

Arthur Weasley shook his head hard. "It's Muggle technology; we can't trust it. I should know, me being the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office." With absurd obstinacy somewhat tinged with apologetic regret, Mr. Weasley sat up a bit straighter, to better assert himself. "Let me explain myself to you all. Now, me being interested in the Muggle technology is one thing. They're fascinating toys, but nothing more. Entrusting the Muggles with the health and sanity of my son is another thing altogether. We have lost one son this year already; is that not enough? I think the wisest course to take is to pursue the time-old traditions of our forefathers, to avoid anything that is unnatural."

The professionals in the room sat, stunned. Never had the possible dissent of the parents ever been accounted for—in fact, if anything, as Snape recalled his discussion with Pomfrey:

_"Have you taken into consideration the will of Arthur and Molly in the care of their son?" _

_"Truthfully, I cannot imagine Arthur refusing any opportunity for Muggle Study." _

_"I agree. But Molly's more headstrong, and more apt to refuse."_

_"I believe Arthur has more of a backbone than most of us would suspect. When the man lays aside all banter, he attains a dreadfully earnest seriousness that must be quite difficult to counter. Besides, Molly is the kind who will listen to reason. Her main concern is obviously for her children."_

He looked at the set of parents before him, rather shocked that he had said anything so frivolous about them. They were anything but frivolous now, and, in fact, rather coming close to seething.

Molly, at once stood. "Come on, Arthur," she insisted, "We have nothing to say to them that you have not already said."

Thus saying, she directed her husband out of the room, him returned to the sheepish Arthur Weasley the world knew.

Pince, Hermione, Snape, and the Psychic all looked at each other when the door shut. None of them knew quite what to say. Then Hermione broke the conversational ice.

"There's nothing we can do but try to persuade them."

"Agreed." The psychic had lost his eager smile in the grimness of the situation. "We can not spend forever, I must say, though. The longer he waits, the worse it gets in his mind. The sooner we can achieve their assent, the better."

Hermione stood up, careful not to make eye contact with the potions master, which he found moderately amusing. "I'll try my best with them," she promised, "But it will be slow going. It was stupid of me to think they would just—just agree, just like that. I'll warm them up to it, then they'll see it from our point of view."

"Don't strain yourself too much, my dear," put in Pince rationally, with more tenderness than Snape had ever heard from her except from her impassioned speech to Pomfrey days previously. "It won't do us any good at all if you too go out of your mind."

A feeble smile came from the girl, and she shook her head. "I'll try not to," she said halfheartedly, then left the room.

"Are we going back, then?" asked Pince lightly, standing and proferring her arm in a genial manner to Snape. Surprised, he took it, and found himself solid in a moment. Psychic Drosselmeyer was quite thrilled at the effect.

"Ach, but that is too queer!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, "Never have I seen that before! A ghost who comes to life again, how is this?"

Pince had turned quite petunia-pink at the 'queer' choice of adjective, but she simply yanked Snape away out the door.

"I don't suggest you read up on it, Drosselmeyer," called Snape over his shoulder. "It's rather a humiliating situation. Cheerio."

As they stalked down the hallway, Pince brushed a strand of hair into her blonde coiffure. At once, Snape noticed something different—was not her hair usually a dark mousy brown?

"Is it the light, or did your hair just turn a great deal lighter?" he asked, curious.

"Has it changed? Bother." As he watched, it suddenly changed back to the usual color he was accustomed to seeing, certainly more appropriate for a librarian than the stark, nearly-white gold that she had been moments beforehand. "I was thinking suddenly how I would look as a Malfoy."

"You're a metamorphagus?" He was incredulous.

"Yes, but I never use my power except subconsciously." She shrugged indifferently. "Lots of people are. Nymphadora Tonks, for instance."

"Your sort aren't really all that common, if you see the statistics."

She snorted. "You've seen the statistics?"

"Incidentially, yes. It's something akin to a mere 2 percent of the word population."

"How dreadfully interesting." In actuality, she sounded rather bored with the idea.

_I wonder if, as a metamorphagus, she can change genders? _That would be somewhat an explanation for her lesbianism, he figured. It was just too hard to wrap his mind around a woman-woman sexual situation.

"I've never grown testicles, if that's what you're thinking," the woman put in coyly, "I change my body's colors and general shape, but I'm not a transvestite. And now let us change the subject."

"You aren't a legilimens, are you?"

"No, just exceptional at understanding men. I fancy that I think like one." A fantastic grin spread across her face, and she added slyly, "But I've fully been afflicted with the temper of a woman."

She stopped in the door-jamb leading into the lobby of the mental wing of Saint Mungo's. Not bothering to unlink her arm from that of Snape's she withdrew a piece of folded paper from an invisible pocket of her dress. Shaking it out, she presented it to him.

"Read this," she demanded, "And I hope you'll find it enlightening. I'd like very much for you to have it published in _The Quibbler_."

"How do you know I was affiliated with _The Quibbler_?" He stared at her suspiciously.

The librarian merely laughed. "Come now," she said, "Any fool would realize the connection between your newfound friendship with Luna Lovegood and the instation of one so-called 'Erik Holmes' as its new official editor. Plus, the fact that you've started a journalism club here. It's not so unobvious as you think. Now read it; I think you'll find it gold."

He did. It was headed:

_Spiteful Poison Pens Never Prosper: Rita Skeeter in her Full Infamy_

_Ministry officials, A-list celebrities, and some of the most brilliant wizards of our time are well aware of the risks of their positions. Indeed, Cornelius Fudge, who served as Minister of Magic from (years), kept a fully-trained auror at his side at all times during the second half of his ministership. Momo Popinjay, prominent singer of chants with the Creeping Corpses, has increased security around her home in Essex by planting an Enormosilva charm, sprouting an enormous and deathly forest to prevent even stray visitors from endangering her. Grant Buddilicup, a well-known billionaire and inventor, keeps an entire hospital in his pocket in the case that he has a heart-attack on the street due to his gross surplus of weight._

_However, though these persons have provided for what seems to be every possible bad scenario, there is one eventuality that has scathed nearly every good name in wizarding England. Born as Margaret Plimpoff, she has spent her entire life steeped and broiled in the continual passion to sully the sound reputations of her fellow men and women through lies and slander. She who has somehow evaded all charges pressed against her for the latter (allegedly to vouchsafe 'freedom of the press') abuses her position as a reporter for the _Daily Prophet _since_ _1979 __in order to accomplish her own personal ends. You may know her better as _Rita Skeeter.

_Born in Southampton in March of 1953, Miss Plimpoff began her life in an extraordinarily good home. Her very proper middle-class family was a decent and prosperous one; Mr. Plimpoff was a banker, Mrs. Plimpoff did work for the Salvation Army, and little Margaret received an excellent education from private tutors. From her earliest days, she was well acquainted with the peerage. A favored visitor at Haie House, the home of Sir Elgar Haie, she became the best of friends with his grand-niece, Miss Irma Pince. _

_"She was always very charming, very polite, with estimable deference," reports Pince grimly, "And my poor uncle was completely taken in by her antics. I don't blame him, of course--we all loved Margy, as we called her then." _

_An intelligent, well-read girl, though with a certain tendency to make entire baskets of candy or biscuits disappear, she was adored by all who came across her. _

_"She radiate(d) a certain poise, a certain confidence, a certain keenness that I admit astonishes me in one so young," wrote Merlona Haie-Pince in 1960, after a pleasant visit from a 7-year-old Miss Plimpoff. "She will do very well in the world, I am sure."_

_The only imperfection of character they perceived at that age was what Sir Elgar called "A dashed childish predilection to fibbing, which will wear off in time as she comes to understand the consequences for her actions". He wrote in his private journal that "Sometimes Margy takes out Irma's pony Berloise without informing anyone, and then when she's too lazy to put it away, she claims that it got out all by itself. Once I was un-suspicious, the second time I was surprised but not concerned, the third time I smelled a rat. The occurrence happened about a dozen times over the past summer months. After a close inspection of the premises, I did find satisfactory evidence that the little devil's hand was the guilty one; she had not scuffed out her own footprints in front of the shed, dropped her handkerchief while out riding, and various other little oddities that an older culprit might not have overlooked. At her age of ten, though, I hardly think that her lying habit is to be severely chastised. I merely let her know that she could take out the pony whenever she liked without having to ask and call my man Roget to put it away, and promptly the pony has forgotten how to open his shed door."_

_Attending Hogwarts as a Hufflepuff, Miss Plimpoff remained the best of friends with Irma Pince even though the other was a proud Ravenclaw. Both girls were already highly academic, and Plimpoff rather resented the fact that she was unable to be in the same house as her best friend. "She never really understood why she did not make Ravenclaw," Pince states, "But I believe I did even then; at times she was really quite silly, and she always lacked the maturity that most Ravenclaws vaguely had. Though studious, she did prefer to spend her time writing silly little stories, often romances with a hint of tragic beauty pervading them. She had me read them and edit them, and often we wrote them together. Her characters came to life before her, though I noticed that they were almost always stagnant personlitywise, for she consistently saw characters in the plainest terms possible. This is instrumental to understanding her own point of view; to her, people are either black or white, and she denies any semblance of gray area even though it is such a dominant factor in her own personality."_

_Despite the developing discrepancies, the girls continued their strong friendship throughout their school years. Their coterie was completed by the awkward squib, Argus Filch. _

_"Margaret was never wild about Argus while I loved him, in a way, and still do," states Pince. "I will say quite openly that he is the most steadfast friend I had in my school years, even before Margaret. This led to the common supposition that we were 'an item', though we were never close to being romantically involved. This closeness was brought on very early from personal similarities, and often we thought as one rather than two people, so precise was our concord. In some situations, Margaret would erupt with an accusation that we were 'ganging up' on her." Perhaps out of an underlying envy or resentment for Pince's perceived preference of opinion and company, or perhaps from an even deeper source, the friends of the misfit trio noticed that Plimpoff began to display certain characteristics. _

_"About our third or fourth year, I'd say, was when Margy--it's quite hard to think of her as 'Rita' nowadays--started being right bloody cruel to me," declares Argus, who is now caretaker of Hogwarts Castle. "Never a civil word when I was around, the slightest thing I did or said would set her off like a firecracker on Guy Fawke's. 'It's downright odd' I told Irma after a particularly bad spell, but she gave me the 'It's probably her aunt Flo come to visit' or the 'She's had such a bad time in potions lately' or somesuch. It never came to me that it might be what you'd call 'indicative' of anything else." _

_Indeed, the girl of many acquaintances was beginning to lose the few friends she did have._

_"There was a time where I thought she'd gotten off her high horse for a while, but it seems that all she was doing was trying to get the dirt on me and Argus for one of her blasted 'newspaper articles'" Irma declared. "Professor Zangteno (the teacher of the journalism class at Hogwarts from the period of 1965-1977) seemed to like her usage of words, but some of the pieces she submitted for publishing were just plain poison." Though she was not highly unskilled in academics, Plimpoff made a strange sort of impression on her teachers._

_"Some of her early work was all right; a little reserved, not too forceful, a little wary," reports Madame Cuthbart, Latin instructor at Hogwarts from 1953-1987. "Then, I would say in '67 her essays became more impassioned, less speculative. Her opinions were a little convoluted, but very definite. And I would say she was definitely immoral—no, actually, more like amoral. She had no guiding principles, and she had nothing good to say about her opponents. Nothing but her own opinion mattered, and it was very frightening, some of the unscrupulous things she was saying. When I asked her about her writings, though, she'd laugh it off, saying, in that singsong voice of hers: 'Oh, well, it's only an essay, isn't it? Not as though I believe all that tosh.' Honestly, though, I believe she did believe it."_

_"Lawks-a-mussy, do I remember that girl!" exclaims Zangteno, who has been retired from public life for some years, "Never did I think there was a worse candidate for the __Daily Prophet __with such pretty pennmanship! Her way with words was magnificent, but that girl, she was a magnet for trouble--and not good trouble, mind you. You mention the day she turned in a two thousand word article on Sex at Hogwarts? Why, that was the best bit of bull I've seen from anyone above a first-year! It focused--I kid you not--on how her two best friends were having an illicit love match, her boy friend abusing his position as under-janitor? Oh, goodness, what a way to treat someone you were once close to! Full to the brim with direct quotations that both parties could never have said, instances that never took place, statistics from polls that had never been taken! If there ever was a way to misconstrue the truth!"_

_He remarked later that he did not allow the obviously-biased article to run in that month's paper, reflecting that if he had, he would have been sacked immediately for allowing such unfounded slander to circulate._

_Even with this indicator of her corruption, Plimpoff's estranged relationship with the world did not completely alienate her; her misanthropy was almost hopelessly endearing to some. "There was an underlying bitterness in her nature that, I believe, attracted me very much in our final years of schooling," Irma confesses. "I took in a bit of her dislike--may I say hatred?--of Argus, and I regret that influence to this day. I was drawn to her in a way I never had been before. I don't think, either, that I would have been un-attracted to her if I had the remotest idea of what she had said about me and others, of what she was going to end up doing to people in the future. She seemed so forlorn, hateful, pathetic, yet strangely enticing. Unlike towards Argus, she never displayed animosity towards me, so I imagined that she just had a certain disliking for him. Her hatred for him was so great that I had to choose between them when we graduated from school—and, to my disadvantage, I chose her without a __thought." Pince's almost masochistic attraction to Plimpoff was the catalyst to spark a totally new relationship while they lived together, alternately job-hunting and 'going on flings' in the deepest heart of London._

_"We had wild, undomesticated, passionate sex, in the proper lesbian manner a mere week after we graduated," declares Pince somberly, "And I am unashamed to say it. I was her first, as she was mine. Indeed, we continued to live as mere 'roommates' for a full three years; her parents had died in a skiing accident earlier that year, and my own mother was dead. I ended it with her for only one reason—she committed infidelity towards me, with (another woman)."_

_Since we actually respect the reputation of this other woman, whom in our place Plimpoff would not hesitate to name, we leave her anonymous. In any case, this instance was enough to set Pince on the alert, and, in retreat, she left Plimpoff to her own devices. "My grandmother was ailing at that time anyways, so I went to live with her instead, and I daresay my life was all the less miserable for it. I was completely disillusioned about Margaret; contrary to popular opinion, those of an androgynous predilection still like to have long-standing relationships, just as much as straight people do. But Margaret was one of the sort that give us a bad name, and I only discovered this after long last." Pince found, almost too late, that she could not trust the woman who would become Rita Skeeter._

_During the period of a few years that ensued, Plimpoff was flitting from job to job, never able to hold one more than six months, understandable with the increasing rates of unemployment. As a ticket-taker, chorus-girl, and editor for playbills, she tried her hand in the Muggle theatrical business, though she never found anything permanent. Almost as sporadically, she made an attempt to work under apprenticeship to a prominent wand-maker, in a broom-construction factory, and as assistant to a dragon-tamer. A few more odd jobs ensued, such as secretary to a rather unimportant Ministry official, waitress on a Muggle train dining car, installer of light-bulbs on some Muggle apparatus, and pinner-upper of cat gall-bladders at an apothecarial drying-house. Then, however, she found her self-chosen niche—the literary world._

_"She has written in one of her forwards, to prelude some book she wrote on that dragon-tamer Rufiel Muntogerat, that 'To say I enjoy reading is one of the few honest things I have ever said in my life' and I believe she meant that," says Mary Cuhlin, now manager of the __Mourning Ink ____bookshop in Bath, where Plimpoff worked from 1973-1975. "I was prejudiced against her because she was my competitor for promotion, see, but I swear that the bad vibe I got when she came near was real. Almost like a dementor had got near you, almost. I knew she snuck books 'ome—some of our oldest, too. One day they'd be 'ere, next day wouldn', and guess who got the rap for it? Me. Then they'd show up all nice and fine, and then I'd inspect 'em later and find soup stains or finger marks on 'em."_

_During her work at the bookshop, Plimpoff began to freelance for____ a small, local daily in the area called __The Meota Moonpost. ____When the said publication offered her a full-time job in 1975, she accepted it quickly and dropped her work at __Mourning Ink____. Apparently, her work for them was satisfactory; in her previously bohemian life, she had made many acquaintances, and formed many connections. Then was when she donned the pen-name of __Rita__Skeeter____. Having a nose almost designed for digging, she followed up on stories she uncovered using her fullest resources, sometimes resorting to blackmail to achieve her ends. _

_"__She threatened to tell my wife how I had visited some prostitute in the West End some years prior, when apparently she was friendly with the prostitute," reports a wealthy London businessman who will remain unnamed. "So when I went to her saying 'I never said that in the interview!' she held that over my head until I quit protesting. It was downright cruel." __Interestingly, the article containing this particular faulty quotation was, in part, what bought her the attention of the __Daily Prophet ____in London. _

_This situation is not uncommon with those dealing with Skeeter; indeed, some of the misquoted include the most prominent of our time. Edmund Potatnwj, the owner and chief operative of the __Potat's Wizarding Retail__ chain is one among many. Albus Dumbledore, the now-dead past headmaster of Hogwarts. Kale Heggles, known as one of the greatest healers of our time. Even the famed Harry Potter has been prey to her word-changing and complete defacing of meaning. _

_Along with her use of uncertified instruments of documenting 'evidence', Skeeter has inordinately unorthodox ways of attaining information. Most people are ____unaware that Skeeter, indeed, is an unregistered animagus. Do not laugh; instead, see the picture on the right, captured by Colin Creevy in the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts just as Skeeter was in the process of transforming into her insect state. A dung beetle, ____Phanaeus vindex,____ is her animagus; infer what you may from this. She has been sighted numerous times in various locations where she ought not have been, including the Minister of Magic's Office, Hogwarts grounds during the Triwizard Tournament, the Sacred Arts Library of Manchester, and innumerable others. _

___Skeeter's personal life has been kept fairly well screened from the limelight, but this is for the main reason that she has very little personal life. She has had only a handful of relationships even resembling deep, the majority of which were highly sexual with no basis beyond ambition for information. Says Mildred Dittlewort, bedder of Plimpoff after they met at a Wizarding gay/lesbian bar in 1978, "We had fun for a few weeks, in between work and what, but then she started pumping me about some of the blokes I knew from work, and when I didn't have enough to tell her about 'em, she told me to get out, and she locked the door on me. Didn' even let me get my own stuff back, what."_

_"__I was the first man she ever had," laments Harmond Tailor, under-secretary to the millionaire Bubyll Wibbles from 19, "And she told me so. We went out for a month, and I took her to see places she said she'd never seen before. She played the poor-girl-sob-story with me, up until I got a chance to introduce her to the old man (Wibbles), and after she went in the room, she shut the door in my face, and I never saw her again. I wanted to marry her. I had the ring in my pocket, and when I came in the room at the old man's call, he thanked me for the service of that very professional call-girl, and wiped the lipstick off his ears! It was only later that he realized he had revealed some very personal information regarding some of the speculations he had made in the Azures, and we put two and two together, see."_

_Nevertheless, despite her sneaking, prying ways, Skeeter, nee Plimpoff, has worked her way up the food chain, helping the __Daily Prophet ____become both a laughing-stock and a disreputable media source. __Skeeter, a morally stunted hater of mankind, who somehow has attained the power of charm and grace, has used these to her advantage while letting her real personality come out through the content she writes. This is the first outspoken retaliation against this magnificently horrific woman who has ruined the reputations of many decent men and women with her digging-up of unnecessary truths, sprinkled with an over-ample dose of fable fabricated from her own mind. _

___In using this hateful, spiteful, woman who manages to get away with her frivolous Quick-Notes Quill, slander and other obscene gestures, as their figurehead, the folks at the __Prophet ____might as well kiss all credibility goodbye. Good riddance to the paper which does everything but try to tackle the truth, accepting bribes to sprout propaganda from the Ministry instead of being objective. What is the point of journalism if not to tell the truth; indeed, what is a __news____paper if not to __give ____the __news? _

Snape looked at the librarian, completely blown away by the epistle. "This _is_ gold," he said simply, "But did you just come up with all this rot?"

"Not at all!" Pince exclaimed, affronted. "I have every bit of evidence you may need to corroborate this. I can provide you with recordings of my interviews with Zangteno and the others, and the letters I also have within my keeping. I never would be so unscholarly as to fabricate such a paper as this! This has taken me the better part of three years!"

"Well," Snape mused, "I suppose I shall have to look over those. Our reputation has been going up among the public since the unfortunate death of Xenophilius, and sales are definitely skyrocketing, based on what Luna's given me in the way of information."

"So I have read," conceded the librarian.

"Eliminating the utter balderdash from the rubbish we put in the magazine has been improving the impression we make. However, I hope you realize that publishing this may bring the ruin of The Quibbler. Skeeter has friends in powerful places, I'm sure."

"Not as many as you would think." Pince's toothy smile unnerved him, and he almost shivered. "Certain—certain instances have brought a rift between some of her best associates as of this week, actually. Without going into too much detail, I think we should strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. The next issue comes out next week correct?"

"What's in this for you, Pince?" Snape asked suddenly. He felt that she was being extremely nice just now, and he could not understand it.

"Same as you. Revenge."

"For having slighted you years back?"

She was miffed at this comment, and her eyes narrowed. "_Infidelity_, I should say, is hardly a _slight _matter. And, like you, I have a long memory. She's never once offered an apology, yet she continues to wreak havoc on some of the most respectable people I know, the people who least deserve it. So why not take action with an ally? It's better than going about it alone. Oh, and by the by," she added petulantly, "You notice I wrote this in such a manner as to imply that I have nothing to do with the article besides being interviewed for it. I would like a psuedonym in the publication. You understand me?"

"Yes, I understand you. Never fear; Luna's something of an expert in the field of creating names. That should not be a problem."

"If it were anything _but _this article, I wouldn't object--indeed, I would _love_--to having my name attached to it. It's more of a stab in the dark that way. You see, I've been planning this for some time, watching her, waiting for her alliances to get shaky enough that they could be easily disrupted by something like this." She grinned again, malevolent eyes gleaming behind her glasses. "She's built her house on sand, that one, and she's going to be regretting it. If she hadn't forfeited me, hadn't forfeited my friendship--well! She'd have one less opponent and one more person behind her. Probably the only rat that wouldn't leave her sinking ship, actually. But that's neither here nor there. The open revelation of her real name--something she's always abhorred, _Plimpoff _for crying out loud, I'd abhor it myself if it were mine--and her orientation (something she's hitherto kept very, very dark for want of scandal prevention) will be devestating, true, but putting forth that she's an illegal animagus will be absolutely crippling."

"Hm. Pince, I don't think I _ever_ want to be on your worst side."

"Never fear, Snapey dear; you're too much of a sweetheart to turn anyone prickly." Her sarcasm was lighthearted, but she continued more seriously. "Less humorously, though you're far from capable of turning the vinegar to jam, mein herr, you'd never actually make me fester. You set me topsy-turvy very often, set me on to boil so to speak, but never do you produce the blistering ire in me that such a woman as Margaret has created."

On that good note, the two made plans to definitely produce the article, with Luna's good graces of course, with the closing sentence:

_We realize that publishing this may bring the ruin of The Quibbler, but we hope that we will drag Rita Skeeter down with us. This horrendous woman has, quite frankly, got to be stopped._

"Well!" concluded Pince, licking her lips in what can only be described as a fiendish manner. "Do you still think I loath and despise you?"

"Considering the fact that you're my accomplice in attaining revenge against a rather petty slur against my reputation," Snape replied, "Frankly, I can't say I can."


	31. Chapter 31

Thank you to those of you who have accessed this chapter. I am sorry to say that there is, in all likelihood, not going to be any further chapters to this story. There are many reasons for this.** A)** This story is pure and utter crap, and unless I go back and revise thoroughly--something I don't have time or energy to do--it worth no more than a notch on the wall, marking my growth as a writer. **B) **I really like the story, but don't have enough ideas as to how to finish it. AKA, I came up with a great starting, but have no idea how to end it. **C)** This story really disgusts me, and I would really need to go back and change a lot of stuff in order for me to continue it. **D) **I can't think of, but I'm sure other reasons exist.

There is always the possibility that I might take this chapter down someday, and replace it with a new and real 'content chapter', but the likelihood of this happening goes down every day.

However, if you like this work, not all hope is lost.

First, **look at the stuff I have recently updated on this account**, because that stuff is most likely something I will continue to work on.

And then, more importantly...

I HAVE A NEW FANFICTION ACCOUNT! Please go to it, add it to your alerts, etc: .net/u/1996191/ Anachronistic Anglophile

It is there that you can access my new story: Sugar Plums Dancing In Her Head

_Summary:__ Hermione cannot wait to go to Hogwarts to finish her 7th year, though Harry and Ron will not join her. Paralleling the ballet 'The Nutcracker', this story is a little AU fantasy featuring a strange Russian composer, Snape's ghost, and Christmas magic._

.net/s/5203294/1/Sugar_Plums_Dancing_In_Her_Head

If you're interested, go take a look-see. Add my new account/other stories to alerts. That would be nice. 

If this is the end of our author/reader relationship, then I bid you God speed, and have a wonderful life.

Sincerely, Alex the Anachronistic


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